Inquisitor Carrow and the Tournament of Tribulations
by littlewhitecat
Summary: His plans to insert himself within the guts of the Ministry of Magic have been highly successful, his apprentices are proving to be both talented and intuitive, and his efforts to consolidate his position within the mundane world are proceeding nicely. But as he knows all to well, all plans disintegrate on contact with reality...and what is English Heritage anyway?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**

So here it finally is, the very first chapter of Carrow's next adventure...which has resulted in a surprising amount of research so far...

-Russian tanks of WWII  
-Armored Personnel carriers used during the Yugoslavian conflict.  
-Sten guns.  
-Military radio call signs.  
-Military radio procedure.  
-British Police uniforms, mainly when did they starting having their names on velcro badges.  
-British traffic police, which resulted in much watching of Road Wars.  
-UK cars of the 90's.

This is just so far.

I would write a scene and then think, what would would they have, do, say in this situation? And it's always the little details that slip you up...

...well, I hope you enjoy this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. It will make all those strange looks I got while cackling with laughter to myself in Costa worth it.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The portrait woke from its doze with a start, gazing around in incomprehension as she took in her surroundings. Where in Merlin's name _was_ she? Directly in front of the portrait frame was a stand filled with lit candles, and a brazier burning incense in a thick blue cloud. Nearby glints of gold caught her attention...only for her to come face to face with several dozen skulls, placed carefully on a rack specially designed for the purpose, most of them heavily decorated with gilded lettering and acanthus work, spelling out quotes in a strange form of Latin.

Across from her frame, she could clearly see a wide open space that could easily accommodate several hundred people, with an elaborately tiled floor, more gilded decoration on strong pillars, which flowed up to an arched and vaulted ceiling, lost in the gloom of the minimal illumination. On the other side of this space were more of the racks, partially filled with more of the decorated skulls; some of them looked as if they had been painted. Above them were dense paintings of...all sorts of things. It was too dark to really make out what was going on, but it looked repetitive...and violent.

Further over to the right, if she leaned forward as far as she could, she could just glimpse an altar raised up on a low dais, covered with a crisp white cloth, flowers and candles placed on it...and above, a heroic depiction of a man wearing heavy alien armour of a type she had never seen before...but it was the man's expression that sent chills down her spine...an expression of utter conviction that what he was doing was _right_.

She shivered with building apprehension as to where she was, to what had happened since she had died. "James," she hissed nudging her husband in the ribs, "wake up, you need to see this."

"Whuzat?" James muttered as he looked round blearily, quickly snapping awake as he took in their new home. "What the _hell_," he exclaimed, looking around in horror. "Lily, what's happened?" he asked. But Lily shushed him, pointing to the gigantic hooded figure that had entered this...whatever it was. Their surroundings became increasingly visible, as the light levels increased, light glinting off gilded statuary and decorated skulls, animated paintings of epic battles to the death, rivers of gore and the literal mountains of corpses...

James grimaced as the wall-painting directly opposite them was revealed to be a blue armoured monstrosity, who methodically disembowelled a tentacled horror with his bare hands, in a rush of sticky green gore...

"That is _disgusting_," James muttered, curling his lip in revulsion. Lily elbowed him in the ribs again, as the hooded figure came to a halt in front of them.

Any misgivings Lily had had were further reinforced as, for the next half hour or so, the darkly shrouded giant prayed in front of them in a deep and booming growl, a string of prayer beads running through his large and deft fingers, the light glinting off the ruby eyes of a particularly ugly skull ring. Lily couldn't help but notice how remarkably like knuckle bones the prayer beads looked. The giant finally left after renewing the incense and candles.

"We're in a chapel of some kind," Lily whispered to James, bewilderment colouring her voice. "Why? What on Earth has happened?"

James shrugged helplessly. "I must admit," he whispered back, pushing his glasses up his nose, "I thought Moldyshorts had won, and we were some sort of...trophy, but listening to that lunatic...my Latin's a little rusty, but I think we might be an object of veneration." He looked at his wife with an incredulous frown.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that," Lily muttered back.

"What?" James asked, bewildered.

"Moldyshorts!" she glared. "It's trivialising the whole war doing that...not to mention potentially dangerous."

James chuckled at the familiar argument, gently putting his arms around his beloved wife. "You know me," he grinned down at her, "got to put the "fun" into fundamentalist."

Lily harrumphed crossly at him, folding her arms.

"But you do agree with me about the veneration thing?" he asked, resting his chin gently on the top of her head, smiling as Lily leant into him.

"Yes, I do," she whispered, "I think we might be honoured ancestors...I wonder how much time had passed. This isn't the Wizarding World I remember, and some of those wall-paintings were using muggle style weapons that looked really high-tech...but really old at the same time..." she trailed off, as the sound of clicking footsteps trailed up the Chapel, the light levels increasing once again...but it wasn't the giant returning.

Lily and James watched in horror as a hideous...thing strode up to the main altar. A curious hybrid of gilded filigree and old yellowing bones, blue glowing runes trailing along their lengths, it walked upright on backward jointed knees and taloned feet. The...thing paused in front of the main altar, crossing its hands across its chest and bowing its head, its glowing eyes flickering momentarily.

They watched as it dusted the altar, tended the candles, and refreshed the flowers. Stepping back, it hissed a series of prayers in the same garbled Latin as the giant...and then its horse's head turned towards them, its eye sockets filled with blue bale-fire. James and Lily cringed backwards as the creature approached.

"Oh Merlin, what the _hell_ is that supposed to be?" James gasped as the gilded monstrosity brandished a feather duster at them.

OOOOOO

Whistling happily to himself, a spring in his step, the God-Emperor of Mankind strode into the coffee shop, a folder stuffed with papers under his arm. Even the parchment letter tucked in among them couldn't dampen his good mood. What a fantastic holiday that had been, he'd actually got to see his pocket fusion engine in action...and it had worked perfectly.

Cappuccino in one hand, cinnamon bun in the other he went and found a seat nice and comfortably out of the way. Some people liked window seats where they could sit and watch the world go by but he much preferred a little quiet corner where he could contemplate and think and doodle...

Ah perfect...he sank back with a contented sigh stretching out his legs and sipping his coffee...the past week...oh, that had been incredible. He'd agreed to visit the research department at Aquila Industries at the invitation (more like pleading) of Mr Carrow's personal secretary. He'd been rather dubious at first but the more he thought about it...the letter had been requesting his assistance in testing a vehicle, apparently a surprise present for Mr Carrow.

Unsure as to what he was going to find, the God-Emperor had arrived at the non-descript building, Victorian industrial gothic if he was any judge, on the outskirts of a little town called Godric's Hollow...to be greeted with awe and excitement by the over enthusiastic and motley team of scientists, engineers and... wizards... witches...magical people who made up the research and development team of Aquila Industries...who had built several working models of his pocket fusion engine, had adapted and developed it further, and now had tasked to...driving a motorbike...and such a motorbike.

He had had several long and involved discussions with several of the engineers of the problems the suspension alone had caused them. The actual bike itself was heavy and bulky, built to withstand the brutal punishment only someone like Carrow could dish out. Carrow was also not exactly a light-weight, and when his armour became involved... The God-Emperor sighed wistfully; he really wanted to have a closer examination of that armour, just a little peek. Really, descriptions and pictures just didn't do it justice...

...and so the engineers had resorted to looking at systems used in extreme vehicles, 60 tonne super-lorries, dumper trucks used for open-cast mining, the transporter used to move the shuttle to its launch pad...the list went on and on, as they put together something that would survive Carrow. It wasn't pretty, but it worked...and then they miniaturized it...and that's before they even got on to the special tyres...the special alloy they had developed for the ball bearings used in the drive system...

...and then he got to test-drive it, he smirked to himself. It wasn't often he came across a vehicle that was actually capable of coping with his real physicality but this came very close. Blocky, ugly and as belligerent as the man it was designed for, it handled like a wild animal, as he test drove it, putting it through its paces, gave feed-back on its performance and assisted in any adjustments and fine-tuning...

...though it had been very amusing when the magical staff witnessed him using his pencil wand, he chuckled round a mouthful of cinnamon bun, yes, they'd got rather upset about that, as if it were against nature, but as he'd pointed out to them it worked perfectly well and it was always handy for the crossword...

...all concluding with the road-worthy testing for the DVLA. Testing the stopping distance had been particularly fun and really showed off the braking system Frank and his team had put so much effort into designing...

...it had been one of the best holidays he'd had in years, he'd made so many friends. Maybe he could order a bike for himself particularly if he offered one of his inventions as a form of payment, his anti-gravity device was coming along nicely...for surely a custom built motorcycle like that would cost a pretty penny...

He sighed heavily as he finished the last of the bun and pulled out the parchment letter that had been delivered only this morning by Fawkes. Waking up to a swan-sized phoenix attempting to snuggle into the crook of his neck had been disconcerting to say the least.

He eyed the address on the front with a heavy sigh. _Mr God-Emperor, Geneva, Switzerland,_ written in iridescent rainbow coloured ink that shifted and changed as he watched. If purple ink had been the bearer of bad news, he dreaded what this eye watering stuff indicated. Maybe Carrow had managed to accidentally destroy the world while he wasn't looking. Gingerly, he opened it...

_...and I fear greatly that Mr Carrow gained his new role within our government through nefarious means..._

_...pushing through legislation of a rather controversial nature...without consultation of the wider Wizengamot..._

_...furthered his personal agenda..._

_...and due to a steady number of articles in the Daily Prophet supporting and promoting his position and political views, I believe that he has somehow conspired to subvert the press to his will... _

_...insisting on all potential Ministry personnel sitting an entrance exam to ensure a high standard of applicants..._

...Oh...no. Just infiltrating the British Wizarding Government and subverting and twisting it to his will. What mad idiot would give Allesandor Carrow a role like that?

"Hey Jon, fancy hiding in a corner like this," an overly cheerful voice loudly exclaimed as someone plonked themselves noisily down in front of him, "had a nice holiday? Topped up your tan? Met any nice birds?"

The God-Emperor looked up with a mental groan, trying discretely to hide Dumbledore's letter from view. Marvin, why did it have to be Marvin? He was just so brash and loud and...good at what he did, make no mistake, but if he were a fabric design, he'd be bright orange paisley; subtlety was not a word in the man's vocabulary.

"Ooh, bird trouble, eh?" Marvin loudly exclaimed, spying the letter.

"Err..." the God-Emperor began, but Marvin interrupted.

"Chocolates, that's what you need," Marvin nodded sagely, "girls _love_ chocolates, the more expensive the better...or you could try flowers. A nice big bouquet of roses and all will be forgiven. Hold on, I can give you the number for this really brilliant florist!" Marvin fished around in the pockets of his coat.

The God-Emperor groaned.

OOOOOO

It was late afternoon, as they carefully worked their way through what might have once been an olive grove. The gnarled and twisted trees looked ancient, casting long and eerie shadows across the ground. It was definitely the sort of place that should play host to at least one tree nymph, Timothy thought, as he carefully edged forward, Browning at the ready; you could practically see faces in the texture of the bark watching them, peering down at them from every tree... every branch...

He mentally gave his over active imagination a good kick; the last thing he needed at the moment was to be jumping at shadows.

"All right?" Wulfric murmured softly behind him. Timothy turned slightly to look at his sort-of-friend and second in command. Dressed in khakis and sludge green, Wulfric stood out amongst Carrow's retinue and their unrelieved black. How the werewolf had managed it, Timothy didn't know, considering Carrow's over-bearing tendencies; he suspected it might have something to do with a whole series of colour-changing pranks that had occurred not long after Wulfric's arrival, but he didn't want to pry, being reluctant to poke a potential ant's hill of trouble. There was only so much danger he wanted in his life.

The combat rifle Wulfric was carrying, tucked up close to his chest, was a potential new product for Aquila Industries; if it passed the field tests, of course. The Cadia IV was an ugly object, looking like the offspring of a Sten gun and an AK-47. So far it had performed well, not jamming, and even working when Wulfric (in a fit of utter stupidity) accidentally dropped his in a mud filled ditch.

Timothy grimaced in reply. "Surviving," he muttered back.

Glancing round, he checked the position of the others. The new people seemed to be coping reasonably well (but then the rotting corpse hadn't hit the fan yet); the ex-soldiers had been slightly surprised, and a little concerned as to the legality of what they were doing, but had taken to sloping around the war-torn Yugoslavian countryside like ducks to water. Having Carrow as a boss probably encouraged them too...

The possibly ex-SAS man (but he wasn't admitting to anything), who insisted everyone should call him Chuddy, had been a little reluctant about the ladies at first, and highly suspicious of Carrow, but Timothy had caught him teaching Juno and Athena, the two definitely ex-army ladies some particularly vicious knife tricks a few days ago, so hopefully he was getting used to them.

Juno and Athena were...well, getting on like a house on fire was a pretty good analogy. They seemed to take great delight in trying out any new equipment or prototypes the R&D department threw their way. Both were currently carrying prototype energy weapons as part of their equipment on this mission. The bulky combat rifles were currently displaying an irritating tendency to overheat, though the slugs of plasma they produced when working were devastatingly effective, melting through metal, plastic, people...even concrete to a degree.

All of them had been personally chosen by Carrow.

Just a month previously, at Carrow's insistence Timothy had place an advert for "security personnel" preferably with military experience, in "Guns and Ammo" magazine. He'd weeded out the time wasters, the inexperienced, the ones likely to commit suicide from prolonged contact with Carrow, the ones who might instead go berserk. These were the absolute cream of a very motley bunch, though Timothy had thrown a few wild cards into the mix...just in case.

The two dozen prospective candidates had been rather suspicious, wary and more than a little puzzled when their follow-up interview turned out to be combat based...in a wood...with air rifles.

"_Your task today is to find Mr Carrow," Timothy announced as he paced back and forth in front of them, leather great coat swirling around his ankles, "and," he grinned, his scars pulling oddly, "attempt to bring him down." He gestured to the wood behind him. "Mr Carrow is not armed, and he's very keen on seeing you all in action. Well...go and find him."_

_The interviewees stared at him as if he were mad._

"_If you need medical attention, just make your way back here." He gave them a reassuring smile. Some of the more sensitive individuals winced. "I've got a first aid kit in the car."_

_Reluctantly, the interviewees began to make their way into the wood._

"_Rich idiots," a short wiry man with a moustache muttered to himself as he went past shaking his head. Chuddy, Timothy thought he had said his name was._

"_You know, that probably isn't the best way to have your first meeting with the Big Boss," Wulfric commented idly as they watched the innocents disappear among the trees._

_Timothy hummed to himself. "What's the likelihood we'll have to take some of them to A&E?"_

_Wulfric just laughed._

_And then Wulfric and Timothy were alone, with just the breeze in the trees and the chatter of birds for company. So now here they were sitting in the Hummer, drinking coffee and watching the woods for anything, any sign at all. It was both boring and nerve-wracking at the same time._

The _Hummer_...Timothy ground his teeth in frustration. All he'd wanted was a car, something small and unassuming, a run-around that wasn't too expensive to run or insure...and then Carrow had to stick his giant fingers in...Timothy hissed angrily to himself unaware of Wulfric's concerned looks...

_Sudden movement among the trees caught their attention, as a small huddle of people slowly approached. Piling out of the Hummer Timothy and Wulfric went to meet them. Slung between the dark haired woman and the short wiry man with the moustache was a blond mouthy idiot who had told anyone who would listen that he was ex-SAS; both of them were struggling to conceal their amusement at their fellow interviewee's current state, semi-conscious, mud down the front of the man's previously pristine fatigues. _

"_Tripped over a tree-root," the wiry man explained with a grin._

Closely shadowing them was Hermione Granger, toting a man-portable mini gun of all things, her demeanour focused and serious. He'd actually had an argument with Carrow over her presence in the mission; a war-zone was no place for a fourteen year old girl, but Carrow had calmly pointed out that he'd been even younger, only twelve when he'd first encountered war, and killed in combat, so he really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Timothy had backed down in the end; getting Carrow to change his mind was an act in futility, and so he carefully watched after Ms Granger, looked out for her, helped her with her training so she would be as prepared as possible. Heck, he liked the girl, she was like the little sister he'd always wanted, the person he felt closest to by far among Carrow's merry band of misfits, and he was blowed if he was going to allow any harm to come to her.

The last member of his little band...Timothy sighed heavily, closing his eyes in exasperation. Nigel Bradely certainly knew his way round a radio and could practically talk in Morse code (much to Carrow's delight), a form of communication that Carrow claimed was virtually sacred to the "Mechanicus" that he sometimes violently ranted about. But the gangly youth was just so...irritating, and the nasty case of hero worship wasn't helping either.

Timothy grimaced in annoyance as they sidled round some abandoned farm buildings. Solidly built in stone, they appeared to be empty, but appearances could be so deceiving. Bradley's audible "ouch" as he stubbed his toe really didn't do anything for his nerves.

The outhouses turned out to be part of a complex of buildings including a farmhouse, a barn full of arcane farming equipment, a hay loft, an empty stables...all of it deserted, the only sign of life the sad corpse of a dog chained up and unable to escape, now nothing more than a bag of bones. But there were no signs of panic or of a quick and frantic exit, nor were there signs of violence, of blood, of executions...of disturbed ground.

Timothy could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising, his stomach churning with anxiety. Something was very wrong here...but what. He exchanged looks with Hermione; young as she was, she could sense it too...

"We aren't staying here a moment longer...take _nothing,_ not even water," he announced to his people. Chuddy and the ladies gave him strange looks, but accepted it with minimal fuss.

"Why no water?" Chuddy asked him, as they carried on down the rocky hillside. "Do you think the occupants were...poisoned, or something?"

Timothy eyed him a moment. "I'm not certain...but I do know whatever happened to them was probably unpleasant in a ...numinous sort of way. It could have come from anywhere, been introduced via numerous ways, so best not to disturb anything."

Chuddy eyed him thoughtfully, though his unease at the situation was clear to see. Chuddy had not been happy to find out about the existence of magic. It wasn't the magic itself per se, it was more the idea that others could use it against him and he wouldn't be able to fight back against it. Timothy felt rather sympathetic towards him, and so their code to skirt around this rather sensitive subject had been...numinous.

"You'll be fine," Timothy reassured him, "most wizards are horrifically unfit, and they never consider the killing capabilities of non-magical weapons."

"So I'm supposed to rely on their innate arrogance, laziness, and complete lack of imagination," Chuddy muttered dubiously.

"Pray you don't meet a muggle-born like me; we tend to be more... resourceful." Timothy smirked at him, giving his cavalry sabre a comforting pat.

Chuddy snorted sarcastically at him.

And that was when they heard the gun fire, a rattling crack-crack-crack followed by another, and a small explosion. Timothy slowed their approach, signalling for the utmost caution as they made their way down the steep hillside, working their way from tree to tree, rocky outcrop to rocky outcrop, the sounds of combat ever louder, accompanied by the sounds of engines and increasingly shouts, angry...pained...

Just past a sharp bend on the road, pinned between the steep rocky hillside and a precipitous drop was an armoured personnel carrier, most likely an FV432, skewed slightly across the road. In front of it lay a battered and smoking wreck of a vehicle. It might once have been another personnel carrier, but life had not been kind to it. Currently, it was being used as cover by a rag-tag group of men in broken-down uniform, soldiers turned bandits.

The passengers of the ambushed vehicle were making these bandits pay for their temerity with their blood, and, despite the bandits' greater number, would have succeeded had it not been for the rust bucket of a tank that had snuck up behind them. Only a madman or someone with nothing to lose would try to get such an unwieldy vehicle along such a twisting, treacherous road.

Timothy scanned the furious fire-fight with his binoculars, trying to assess the situation as quickly as he could, taking in the battered vehicles, the dead bodies strewn on the road, some surprisingly familiar faces. He frowned distractedly; where had he seen them before? And then a heart stopping moment...Matthew...his brother...this was his brother's squad fighting for their lives. Well, there was really only one thing he could do given the circumstances.

"Wulfric, take Juno and Athena, and take out that tank...with extreme prejudice. Wait for the signal," Timothy commanded, his expression grim, "Chuddy, Granger, Bradley...you're with me..."

He led them further down the slope, behind the bandits' APC, and then carefully down onto the edge of the road, sheltering behind fallen debris that hadn't been cleared in the normal way; there was too much chaos for anyone to care about moving fallen boulders from a country road. Timothy quickly outlined his plan to the others, who readied themselves for the fight to come, Bradely looking pale, checking his rifle once again, Granger gripping the mini-gun, her expression determined and grim, Chuddy..."I don't like this, they're UN peace keepers, we're just civvies who shouldn't even _be_ here," he muttered, clearly unhappy, Cadia IV clutched to his chest, bayonet already in place. Timothy stared at him from behind his stony expressionless mask.

"Your objections are duly noted," he muttered back stiffly, "now get into place."

As they quickly crept across the road and took their places, Timothy drew his sword and clicked the speak button on the Tandy walkie-talkie twice. The blue of warp-fyre began to play around his fingers; it was the only type of psykery that he'd managed to master so far...but so useful. The whine-zap-crackle of the energy rifles quickly followed after.

"Now," he hissed to Granger. Bracing herself, the girl opened fire into the backs of the bandits who had taken shelter behind the damaged APC. Taken by surprise, they were cut in half, staggering, falling, blood and gore splattering up the vehicles, across the road, over their stunned and reeling brothers-in-arms who turned desperately, trying to bring their weapons to bear...

Granger fell back, and as they came forward, he threw the warp-fyre with a flick of his wrist, quickly gathering more, the crackle of the others' rifles around him followed by more quick controlled bursts of the mini-gun...

...and then they were on them, and his sword leapt forward, impaling a surprised youth with a rusty AK-47 clutched in his hands. He kicked the boy's body away, threw fire into the stubbly unwashed face of another man, slashed across the stomach of a third who screamed a horrible bubbling sound that would haunt Timothy's dreams for months, ducked under a rifle butt, stabbing another in the throat as he tried to lunge past...a vague impression of Chuddy stabbing someone in the stomach with his bayonet, shooting him in the head as the bandit went down, clutching the gushing wound...another bandit, furious, bad teeth, screaming incoherently, trying to club him with his rifle...he ran him through...a ballet of slash and lunge and blue fire death, the stench of blood and gore and fear, screams and shouts and distant explosions, one so large that it shook the ground, and then...

...and then, it was all over. He looked around for the next enemy, circling on the spot, but only his people were standing, Granger kicking corpses, checking their...status, Chuddy with a glazed looking grin on his face, Bradley limping slightly, dazed...he breathed a sigh of relief...at least he hadn't got any of them killed...now to check on Wulfric and the others.

Timothy slowly and carefully made his way around the wrecked APC, carefully drawing the Browning as he did so, conscious of the fact that there were still-living muggle soldiers on the other side...hopefully...

...right into the face of a surprised and terrified man, broken down uniform, bad teeth...he shot him in the face, and then ran the one behind through with his sabre...but the next ones were ready, their guns in place, snarling in anger for their fallen friends...he twisted in space, a whirl of magic and he apparated behind them, one arm already bringing up the Browning for the kill shot, the man's face disintegrating in a wash of bone splinters and brain pulp...his sword found the other, dismembering him, running him through...he twisted and turned in space again, impaling another, a young one, terrified and pleading...a sharp pain as he brought the Browning round for the shot. The gun skittered off into space, and he turned, bellowing his fury, _"Ave Imperator!" _ Wrenching his sword free, gathering warp-fyre around his fingers, he slashed across the screaming man's arms, and threw the fyre into his shocked face...which, enveloped with the unnatural fire, disintegrated in a wash of burning flesh and bone, the man's last terrible scream fading away...he turned on the spot looking for the next attacker, but...

Chuddy pulled his bayonet out of a prone body, and Granger joined in, checking the fallen for signs of life, and shooting anything that twitched, Bradely hanging back, Cadia IV at the ready, in case of trouble...

Timothy turned towards the UN vehicle, dreading what he would see, his frigid mask tightly in place. The soldiers of his brother's squad stood there, battered and bruised, but watchful, weapons at the ready. His brother stood among them, a graze down the side of his face, his expression unreadable.

"Oh look," one of the soldiers piped up sarcastically, "it's Timmy the _Civvie_."

Ignoring the stupid comment, Timothy strode forward, his face utterly rigid but his eyes blazing with worry, anger...

"You bloody idiot," he snarled at Matthew, "what the _hell_ are you doing here? Do you know how dangerous this area is?" His face was pale with fury, blood slowly dripping off his still unsheathed sabre.

Matthew stared at him, mouth opening and closing rather like a goldfish. "Dangerous," he spluttered, "you're a bunch of civilians; just what the _fuck_ do you think _you're_ doing wandering around a war-zone?"

"I'm working, you fool," Timothy shouted back, "what the hell are _you_ doing?"

oOo

Wulfric worked his way round the smoking remains of the tank, Juno and Athena close behind, his ears pricking up at the sound of shouting...but it didn't sound like fighting. He stared incredulously as he caught sight of the normally stoic and stony faced Tim red-faced and shouting at one of the soldiers, who was busily giving back as good as he got. But as he listened to the two, things became clearer; this was Timothy's older brother, Matthew the soldier...oh dear.

He sidled past Matthew the soldier's army colleagues, who stared at him and the ladies with varying levels of wariness and curiosity. Juno and Athena's proto-plasma rifles certainly garnered a certain level of interest as they sidled up to the shouting match, just as it started to get out of hand, Tim shouting something incoherent into his brother's face, while poking him in the chest. Matthew, wide-eyed and furious, didn't look as if he was going to take whatever the insult was lying down (something about irresponsible older brothers), and came back with fighting talk, "Just you wait till I tell mum!" he shouted back.

Wulfric sighed heavily; time to break this pair up, before they really embarrassed themselves. One of the soldiers obviously had similar ideas and so they approached the squabbling pair before they could do something really stupid.

"Tim...Timothy," he raised his voice over the shouting with little effect. Sighing heavily again, he met the eyes of his opposite number, a look of mutual understanding and exasperation passing between them. "INTERROGATOR FAULKS," he bellowed.

Finally Timothy jerked round, his eyes burning with fury and worry. "Your sword," Wulfric pointed out, "it needs cleaning."

Timothy flushed pink for forgetting something so basic, and stalked away a few paces, his great coat swirling around his legs, pulling a cloth from his utility belt and seeing to his blade.

"Corporal," the other second muttered, "what now?"

Matthew drew a shuddering breath as he watched his little brother, outlandishly dressed, looking like some mad left-over Prussian commissar, sheath his sword and accept his pistol back from one of his... team... colleagues... he didn't know what to call them...and what sort of title or rank was "Interrogator" any way?

"Who are you people?" he demanded furiously.

Wulfric grinned broadly. "We're the Inquisition! _Nobody_ expects the Inq..."

"Shut up, Wulfric," Timothy snapped, straightening his dolman and adjusting his peaked cap. Back rigid, he glared at his brother and his squad, his stony mask carefully in place. "All you need to know is that we work for Mr Carrow, and we are currently completing a...task for our employer."

Matthew watched him with narrowed eyes, glaring at the members of his group, one by one. The obvious ex-military personnel, the man, wiry with a moustache, and the two women, cradling the strangest guns he'd ever seen...the lanky freckled youth...the grinning blonde idiot, who was strangely predatory...and a girl, a young girl carrying a...mini-gun...all but one of them in battered black fatigues and body armour and coal scuttle style helmets, that were obviously new but battered and scarred... and dpm bashas as cloaks..."And who are these people?" he finally asked.

"My entourage," Timothy replied stiffly. "Wulfric, my second. Juno. Athena. Bradley. Tho..." The wiry man with the moustache cleared his throat meaningfully. "...Chuddy. Granger. They work closely with me," Timothy finished.

They eyed one another silently for a moment...and then the rapid tapping of Morse-code stuttered over the radios...all of them. Bradely quickly pulled out a notebook, rapidly writing down the message before tripping over to Timothy. "Sir," he gasped, "Interrogator Faulks, sir, a message from Mr Carrow, sir." He breathlessly handed the slip of paper over.

"Thank you, Bradely," Timothy replied stiffly, ignoring the stares of the soldiers, and examining the message carefully, before destroying it in a small burst of warp-fyre. "Right," he looked round the others, before striding over to his brother again, "we'll remove the...blockage for you, and then we'll be on our way. Wulfric, if you would," he said flicking his wand out.

Matthew grabbed his arm. "Do you think that I'm going to let you toddle off in this area? Absolutely not! You, all of you," he pointed at Timothy's motley crew of hangers-on, "are leaving this area _right now!"_

"Absolutely not," Timothy snarled back, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The two brothers glared at one another.

Matthew lunged forward but Timothy, honed by months of sparring vampires easily dodged him, pulling his Browning out and putting the muzzle to his brother's jaw. "Your mistake," his smile was a ghastly caricature, "and I think I've changed my mind. _You_...and your men, are coming with _us_."

Wulfric did a double-take, his expression increasingly horrified, "Tim...wait, Tim, what are you doing?" he hissed.

"Stop fussing Wulfric, they've got a vehicle and extra guns. I have a suspicion we're going to need both by the end of this."

OOOOOO

Barty Crouch looked around nervously, as he stuck his head round the door (or was that a hatch, he was unfamiliar with boat nomenclature) that led on to the deck of the ferry, the Dark Lord Voldemort, or what passed for him these days, firmly strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, the matching nappy bag bumping his hip. He shuddered as he felt the contact of the box the Dark Lord had made him retrieve, filthy, dirty...he felt contaminated by it. What the Dark Lord wanted with the contents, he shuddered to think...it would be terrible, but great, of that he was certain. The Magical authorities appeared to be increasingly jumpy these days, and so he daren't risk the usual transport methods; International Floo was completely out, considering how well guarded it now was. He daren't try apparating across the Channel; he was a little rusty having not done so for so many years and side-along apparition with something as magical as the Dark-Lord's temporary golem body, the possibilities for splinching...it just didn't bear thinking about.

And so he had come up with a cunning plan.

They would travel to England the muggle way, on one of those ferry things to be exact, with the Dark Lord disguised (and here he mentally winced, what _had_ he been thinking) as a baby.

A couple of confundus charms had allowed him to walk away from a "Mother and Baby" shop with the Dark Lord's disguise. The hard bit had been getting him into it; the death threats he had received had been of epic proportions. A few more confundus charms had got them past the muggle authorities, and their "customs", whatever that was, and onto the ferry thing itself. He'd hidden in one of the cabins while they left the land behind, but now...the constant rolling motion was starting to make him feel queasy, and so he was braving a walk around the deck. Maybe some fresh air would make him feel better. The day was bright and sunny, with small clouds scudding across the sky in the stiff breeze, the air fresh and crisp as he walked along, the cute bunny ears of the Dark Lord's novelty baby-gro flapping in the wind, accompanied by much dark and evil muttering from the carefully glamoured Voldemort.

Barty winced when he looked down at his precious cargo carefully strapped to his chest in the baby carrier. It had been what he could get his hands on at the time, and was as far from "wanted dark wizard" as it was possible to get, with its adorable bunny print on a pale blue background; even the nappy bag matched. But he knew that at some point in the future when the Dark Lord was able to arrange it, that he was going to pay for this, probably with parts of his anatomy. He shivered at the thought, though that could just have been the evil box banging his hip.

"Oh, isn't he adorable," an elderly female voice twittered happily by his left elbow. To Barty's utter horror, the elderly lady reached forward and tickled the Dark Lord's cheek. "Cootchy cootchy coo," she simpered. The Dark Lord Voldemort was so shocked by such treatment, that he actually fell into a stunned silence.

"How old is he?" the elderly lady asked, peering up at Barty through thick glasses. "I'm Gladys, by the way. Are you going to Dover too?"

Barty gave her a sickly smile as he realised the shivering of the Dark Lord wasn't due to cold, but pent up rage. Frantically looking round for a quick escape...he saw a nearby couple give him indulgent smiles, a little girl ran past, the hood of her coat bouncing with her movement...and there were absolutely no escape routes. When the Dark Lord finally regained his body, he was going to be _so_ dead.

"I'm err...I'm Barty," he said, as he tried to sidle past Gladys, who had manoeuvred herself to block the way, "and ermm this is..._Cecil_...he's six months old..." he finished, smiling desperately, trying to ignore the funny gravelly noise, as the Dark Lord ground his teeth in rage.

"How lovely," Gladys simpered. "Hasn't he got an adorable pouty face," she cooed at top volume, going back to tickling the Dark Lord's cheek. Barty looked round frantically, as the Dark Lord began to mutter evil threats under his breath; maybe he could get away with cursing the old bat. The nearby couple grinned at him, before moving on. The young family of the little girl parked themselves nearby, their youngest in his push chair screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Is he a bit colicky?" she asked. "My Andrew had the colic something shocking when he was a baby. Poor little man...made him so uncomfortable, you know."

Barty grimaced in a way he hoped conveyed sympathy, though he suspected he just looked constipated.

"Oh yes," Gladys continued, blissfully unaware how close she was to having her fingers bitten off by an enraged Dark Lord, "Gripe water, that's what he needs. A big table spoon in his next bottle, and he'll feel much more the thing...won't you, little man," she cooed.

"I've got to, ermm...go now," he said, his mind frantically scrambling for a suitable excuse, "Cecil...ermm...needs his err...nappy changing." His chuckle sounded slightly desperate, even to his ears. The Dark Lord went rigid with fury so intense, Barty was surprised the cute bunny ears didn't spontaneously combust.

Gladys nodded understandingly. "Has ickle baby done a poo-poo?" she simpered, giving the Dark Lord's cheek a final pinch. Barty gave her a last sickly grin, and fled back the way they'd come, diving for the safety of the door and the maze of passages and cabins. Back in their cabin, he leant against the door with a huge sigh of relief.

"_Cecil? _CECIL!?" the Dark Lord shouted, in an awful shrieking hiss. "Was that the best you could come up with?" he screamed, as he thrashed in the baby carrier. "Get me out of this thing, I've had enough, do you hear, _enough!_"

The resulting struggle as the Dark Lord tried to thrash his way out of the harness, fighting Barty's efforts to free him, was both nasty and short leaving Barty with deep scratches on the back of a hand, and a patch of bleeding scalp where Voldemort had succeeded in pulling a clump of hair out by the roots.

Sucking the back of his hand, he watched the Dark Lord warily as he sat in the middle of the narrow bunk-bed, sipping his potion from a spouty cup, an unpleasant combination of snake venom and human blood. Still furious, the Dark Lord's red eyes blazed with anger. "We are never going to speak of this again," he hissed, taking another sip from the spouty cup, "understood?" He glared, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Barty nodded frantically.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**

Here is Chapter 2 of Carrow's latest outing for your enjoyment, beta'd by Jacobus-Minoris as usual :-)

This was originally the back end of the first chapter...untill I got bogged down and started tearing my hair out over it, a not uncommon occurrence with fan fiction. I'm honestly surprised I'm not bald by now. So yes, I chopped it in two and it continued to grow untill it became this...

There's even more research in this one, particularly relating to English Heritage. They're like a specialist mafia dealing in listed buildings who come round to your home with menaces ...I ended up on a solicitor's website and a sort of Listed Building survivors' group...and it's really scary. If you buy a listed house and the previous owners did something like change the windows without getting the proper planning consent then you are liable for their replacement and potentially could end up in jail...

Anyway enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

If the standoff between his men and Tim's...entourage had been unpleasant and dangerous, then the journey to the "rendezvous point" had been cramped, uncomfortable and deathly silent, the professional soldiers reluctantly sharing the normally fairly spacious FV432 with a group of... agents... mercenaries? They still weren't sure, who had basically commandeered both them and their transport.

They had ended up near an abandoned house up in the hills, surrounded on two sides by dense woods and rocky outcrops, and on the south side by a meadow which drifted down to the local river. Nearby, the tinkling gush of a fast flowing stream could be heard. The building was far too small to be a farm; a shepherd's dwelling maybe? When they checked the insides, there had only been two rooms, full of abandoned furniture and personal belongings, as if someone had left in a hurry. Timothy had looked around with a strange frown on his face, Granger ghosting after him, equally grim. Whatever it was that bothered them they wouldn't say.

He and his men carefully explored the surrounding woods, looking for signs of human activity, but there weren't any. Even the local wildlife seemed sparse, with only the occasional bird singing among the trees. The odd silence was eerie and uncomfortable, unnerving even, so it was with great relief that they returned to the small cottage.

He found his brother had set up a watch around the place with his strange mixed-bag of people. Ex-military and civilians trained to work together, he idly thought, obviously drilled until they could fight in their sleep, each one knowing exactly what their role within the group was. An unpleasant thought niggled its way to the forefront of his mind; was someone trying to put together their own private army? He dismissed the idea as utterly ridiculous.

Matthew eyed his brother's back, as he spoke in low tones to his second, Wulfric, and the child soldier. Something very strange was going on, he thought, as his brother efficiently organised his people to scout out the local area.

So now they were waiting for the mysterious Mr Carrow to make his appearance. Maybe then he would get to the bottom of who this monster precisely was, and maybe he'd even get the opportunity to tell him exactly what he thought of people who tortured and psychologically maimed his little brother.

"So, baby brother," he asked Timothy warily, "what the hell have you got yourself involved in?"

Timothy glared at him as he stirred sugar into his coffee. Magic had proven itself to be good for more than removing trashed APC's from roads and flash-frying hostiles, and so Fitch, his second, and the rest of the squad were busily enjoying hot food and, best of all, steaming mugs of tea for the first time in several days, the only high point so far to their unexpected side-trip.

"As I keep telling you, Matthew," Timothy replied stiffly, "I'm a secretary. Mr Carrow's personal secretary, to be precise."

The professional soldiers burst into cynical laughter. "Yeah, right," said Fitch, "I was there for the paintball piss-up. Personal assassin, more like."

Timothy went pink. "I sort proble..."

"Assassin?" Wulfric asked suddenly. "So what happened then? He won't tell us at all," he pointed at the embarrassed Timothy, "something about not being up to his brother's standards, or some such..."

Matthew and the squaddies stared at their red-faced nemesis. "It was more like he hunted us," Matthew said slowly. "It was pretty embarrassing."

"Yep," Fitch agreed, "he really caught us on the hop...it was like a cross between a ninja and Errol Flynn. Very disconcerting when you've got a hangover."

Wulfric grinned broadly at Timothy. "You got carried away and just had fun for once, didn't you?" he asked, laughing.

Timothy glared, his face practically glowing. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I sort problems out for Mr Carrow, but he is quite capable of removing people himself without any assistance from me. I am only his apprentice after all."

"So he's teaching you to be like himself?" Matthew said slowly. "And what about Granger? Is he teaching her to be like himself too?"

Granger looked up from where she was checking the mini-gun over with the assistance of Juno, her eyes chilly and calculating.

Timothy glared at his brother. "Ms Granger is on her Summer Internship at the moment, and I can assure you it is all quite legitimate."

Granger nodded, still glaring at Matthew. "It took me ages to persuade Mr Carrow too, but definitely worth it. I've learnt so much the past few weeks, so I don't want anybody to spoil it." She glared with narrowed eyes.

Matthew stared, not quite believing was he was hearing. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind; what could he possibly say? Instead he turned back to his little brother. "I'm not liking this, I'm really not. You remember that conversation with Dad? The one about that job vacancy at that accountancy place, well, you should have taken him up on it..." He dragged his fingers through his close cropped hair. "You're my little brother...and the things you're getting mixed up with..."

"Matthew, I appreciate your concern, but really...this isn't the time or place for this conversation," Timothy said through gritted teeth. "I have no desire for another job, and frankly, if I tried, I suspect Mr Carrow would stalk me... probably with his pet tiger."

"Pet tiger?" Matthew asked, but Timothy ignored him, drinking his coffee and turning his attention to where some of the squaddies were busily trying to persuade Juno and Athena to let them have a closer look at the proto-plasma rifles, hold them even. Matthew sighed heavily, taking in his brother's worn appearance with concern. Were those grey hairs starting to appear already, and why did that design, the stylised "I" on a skull, look so familiar?

And so the time crawled by, interrupted only by several flurries of Morse code, deftly translated by Bradely, and a false alarm as a deer came out of the trees down by the river.

The sun was low in the sky and evening was drawing in by the time the lookouts, in this case Chuddy and Athena, spotted him.

"Sir," Chuddy announced, "movement by the river. I think it might be Mr Carrow, and the, err, vampires...sir," he grimaced still not getting used to the idea of such supernatural creatures, and still awkward discussing them in day-to-day conversation, particularly in circumstances this serious.

The squaddies snorted with barely suppressed mirth. Timothy ignored them as he heard the rustles of the coven members arriving. Moving with inhuman grace, they were clothed from head to toe in special protective suits. They were intimidating figures, dripping with weapons, their faces obscured by gilded masks in the form of grinning skulls, apart from one. The small female, no taller than five feet, had brown hair that looked as if it had been roughly hacked off with a knife. Hissing, eyes glowing red, and fangs fully visible, she made a bee-line for Timothy.

The squaddies stared, their body language tense, weapons held close.

"Ahh, Interrogator Faulks," the one apparently in charge wheezed, his voice old and dusty, though his movements were just as graceful and agile as the others. "Tis good to see thee and the others in good health...and thou hast gained some waifs and strays on your travels, I see..." He stared pointedly at the squaddies, who stirred uneasily as the masked figures drifted towards them, their movements unnaturally fluid and loose.

"Methuselah, I trust your hunt went well," Timothy replied, smiling slightly as he watched the vampires' antics.

"Indeed," Methuselah wheezed, "our hunting has been _quite_ fruitful."

"Carrow's here," Chuddy announced from where he watched the meadow in front of the cottage through his binoculars. Fitch sidled over to see what the fuss was about, pulling out his own binoculars. "What the hell?" he breathed, jerking back, startled.

"That," Chuddy smirked, "is Mr Carrow."

Fitch stared at him in disbelief, before turning back to his binoculars. "That's not physically possible...what the hell is _that_? It must weigh a ton..." he trailed off.

"Powered exo-armour, weighing in at just over three tons, actually," Timothy added, coming forward to watch his employer's approach, "similar to a small family car, in fact."

Fitch stared at him.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," Chuddy laughed, "looks like an old T-54."

Timothy looked up from his hunt for a blood-pop for Natasha. "That's not going to end well," he muttered, carefully un-wrapping the sweet for the little vampire. Handing it over to the eagerly hissing Natasha, he drifted over to watch the stupidity, or desperation, unfold, just in time to see the T-54 attempt to run Carrow over.

The power-armoured Carrow easily leapt out of the way in a move which caused much exclaiming among the squaddies. The bellows in High Gothic clearly expressed Carrow's opinion on such uncouth behaviour, and precisely what he was going to do to such uncivilised barbarians, before it descended into an inhuman howl of rage.

Timothy tsked to himself. "Looks like those idiots have just dug their own graves," he commented cheerfully.

Wulfric snorted with laughter. "So, how many minutes? I'm betting my last chocolate bar they only manage three and a half."

"One minute, forty seven seconds," Granger commented. "I've got a fruity flapjack resting on it."

The others piled in with their suggestions, as they eagerly watched the unfair fight, Timothy shaking his head in amusement.

The old tank tried to manoeuvre round for another go, but Carrow was furious, and the tank was distinctly slow and lumbering. He easily vaulted up it, ignoring the pathetic attempts at swatting him off with the main gun. Jamming his fingers in the gap between the turret and the body of the tank, he heaved.

"There goes the turret," Chuddy crowed.

"Just like a giant Frisbee," Wulfric commented, snorting with laughter.

"Ah, look at that...like rats out of a sinking ship," Juno commented, as the unfortunate tank crew tried to escape the furious Astartes.

"They'd be better," Granger commented as she watched, "if they hunkered down as far as they could, and tried to get him jammed in the opening...then they could set off a hand grenade..." she said thoughtfully, as Carrow grabbed a crew member by his head and crushed the unfortunate's skull to a pulp, while smashing another one sideways with a sickening crack, the limp body falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

"It wouldn't kill him, though," Wulfric said.

"No," Granger said, "but it would slow him down a bit, and then someone else _might_ be able to finish him off...maybe..." she idly speculated, as Carrow leapt off the tank, an impossible trajectory, and landed squarely on the back of the third with a nasty crunch. The last man managed to get a further three yards before Carrow lunged forward, a blur of motion, grabbing his leg. The man screamed, terrified beyond reason, desperately reaching towards the apparent sanctuary of the small cottage...until Carrow tore him limb from limb in a wash of gore.

The armoured giant looked around, its body language almost _disappointed_, Matthew thought with fascinated horror.

"One minute, forty two seconds," Chuddy announced. "Looks like Granger wins again." He grinned in amusement.

Matthew blinked. These people were mad, utterly mad. "Looks like we've fallen down the rabbit hole," Fitch murmured by his elbow. Matthew really couldn't help but agree.

oOo

Timothy straightened his back and settled his sword as he approached Carrow carefully, making sure to keep in the man's field of vision. Splattered in gore from the unfortunate tank crew, and with the odd new scratch to his armour, Carrow cut an intimidating figure as he stalked around the APC, eyeing it from every angle, looking it over carefully before finally climbing up, and peering inside through the top hatch.

"If you get stuck," Timothy commented, "you can wear it home."

The armoured giant twisted slightly, giving him a glare over his shoulder pad, or Timothy thought he did; there was just something about his body language. Carrow went back to his investigation, leaving a trail of gory handprints, and, Timothy winced, a large dent. Probably best not to mention that to Matthew; what the mind didn't know, the heart couldn't grieve, and all that. Hopefully, it would just get written off as battle damage.

He sighed heavily as another gory smear appeared across the front. Flicking his wand out, Timothy strode forward, intent on solving the problem. Grabbing one of Carrow's enormous gauntlets, he quickly and efficiently cast a series of scourgify charms, clearing the remains of pulped brain from the crevices of the armoured fingers. Satisfied with his work, he let it go. "Now the other one," he demanded.

Carrow silently complied, something about his stance suggesting amusement.

"Where is its armament?" he asked, his usual growl oddly distorted by the vox caster of his helmet.

Timothy looked up from his cleaning. "It's a personnel carrier really, there's a machine gun on top, and as I understand it, it's got smoke launchers on the front...I think..."

Carrow grumbled to himself. "Pathetic, and it's not armoured properly, it's far too flimsy." He glared at the vehicle as if it had personally offended him. "And the original owners of this ridiculous death trap?" He gave the FV432 a gentle shove, causing it to rock back and forth alarmingly.

Timothy nodded his head towards the cottage. "Why don't you come and meet them?"

Matthew stood half way between the cottage and the FV432, his rifle cradled deceptively casually. Behind him, the others watched cautiously from the cottage, keeping watch from the windows and doorway, Timothy's personnel waiting outside nearby, barely hiding their amusement.

Carrow stalked towards them, light-footed and graceful, eyeing the unfamiliar faces with considerable interest, the skulls of his chatelaine clinking quietly together, the remaining light softly gleaming off the gilded decoration and chains. He circled around the wincing and nervous...what was he? PDF? One of the local armies, definitely. His insignia denoted his rank, and that he was most likely the one in charge of the strangers, if the rank insignia of Ancient Terran armies worked anything like he was used to. He came to a halt in front of the spooked man, whose only visible reaction was to tighten his grip on his weapon. Impressive.

Matthew glared up at the eyepieces of the monster, wincing at the teeth aching whine of the armour, desperately trying to hide his nervousness, and loath though he was to admit it, his fear. The giant reached up, clasped its helmet with both hands and twisted; with a click and a hiss of escaping air, the helmet was lifted away to reveal...

Matthew's eyes widened in horror; this wasn't a normal person wearing giant armour, this was a giant, wearing armour tailored to fit, an avatar of violence and destruction. He gazed up into the greenest eyes he'd ever seen in his life, eyes full of child-like curiosity and utterly ruthless cunning, and behind it all...rage...rage, unending, unquenchable, desperate to break free...here was someone who had been made with the express purpose of exterminating ordinary soldiers by the hundreds...by the thousands...here was his ultimate predator...

Carrow turned to his apprentice with a questioning look.

Timothy shrugged. "I coerced the Corporal and his squad into allying themselves with me."

Carrow smiled indulgently down at his young apprentice, laying a hand approvingly on his shoulder; Timothy was coming along so well. "I always recommend execution of some of the less useful ones if you are met with too many objections." He grinned slightly as the PDF startled at the sound of his voice. "The trick is to choose the...second to least useful; it always leaves the others wondering who will be next." His grin turned increasingly smug, as the soldiers visibly paled under Timothy's speculative gaze.

Matthew shook himself out of his daze as the monster stalked past towards the cottage, the ground vibrating slightly under his considerable weight. What the hell...he stared after the monster...and then at his little brother. Tim just raised an eyebrow at him, and strode after his...boss...master...one hand on the hilt of his sword. Matthew stared after him for a moment, before sprinting after him.

"Our target is a settlement five klom north-east of our current location," the giant was growling when Matthew caught up, "and it is in dire need of cleansing. I think it likely to be the epicentre of the local infestation, and the source of all the signs of taint that we have come across. Now, I and the Coven will scout the way, the...personnel carrier can follow us, while Interrogator Faulks and his people will protect the rear..."

"What?" Fitch snapped. "You can't just..."

Matthew silenced him with a wave of his hand. Glaring up at the menacing figure of Carrow, he snarled, "We'll go with you and your...people, if only to keep you out of trouble."

"Corporal," Fitch hissed behind him, but Matthew waved him quiet again.

"Just as long as you understand one thing. They're _my_ squad, _my_ people and _my_ responsibility," Matthew jabbed a finger into Carrow's lower chest, "they're not for _you_ to order around. Understood?"

Carrow smiled like a shark, his eyes hard and predatory. Matthew felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he shifted slightly unconsciously, preparing for the possibility of violence. Carrow turned and stalked away, chains clinking and shifting.

"Corporal," Fitch asked, "this is way above our pay grade, isn't it?"

Matthew stared after the retreating Carrow. "Yes...yes, I rather think it is," he muttered, "has Ed got that bloody camera on him?"

"I think so," Fitch replied with a frown.

Nodding distractedly, Matthew turned to his second. "Get Ed to take as many pictures as he can," he muttered to him, "all of his film stock, and slap him if he moans about it. I want this all documented."

oOo

"Doesn't this look horribly familiar?" Wulfric muttered as he stared at some of the repulsive luminescent graffiti that had been daubed over the roadside wall. Timothy frowned nervously, and re-checked his weapons; help was a radio away now that Matthew and Carrow had split off to approach the town from different directions. "I have a nasty feeling things are going to get extremely messy," he muttered back as they continued their cautious approach, the others strung along behind them.

Narrowing his eyes, Timothy signalled to the others to stop and keep to the shadows. There in the empty street appeared to be a child, alone, shuffling along in what appeared to be a thin nightdress. He carefully looked around; he couldn't see anyone else, and so far, apart from the foul graffiti, this little place seemed comparatively untouched by the surrounding chaos. Memories of that cabal of sorcerers, of those people, men, women and children all touched by something terrible and corrupt flashed through his mind.

"Romania," Wulfric quietly murmured behind him. Timothy nodded, there was something just...off about the way this child was walking, an aimless shuffle that meandered across the road, arms hanging limply by its sides.

Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn't there? Timothy signalled them to move forward slowly and carefully. As they got closer they became increasingly aware of an odour, fetid and rotten. Their pace slowed even further as they cautiously checked doorways and windows as they passed, their night vision goggles turning everything a garish pink monochrome. From the long and matted hair it appeared to be a girl child, her night dress a man's shirt, so large on her slight frame it hung past her knees, the sleeves rolled up so she could use her hands...

...but her fingers were a muddled twisted mess, her legs utterly filthy with dark stains running down their length...and she stunk, worse than an abattoir on a hot day. Timothy grimaced, trying to breathe quietly through his mouth. Considering the last time they were in a place afflicted such as this, it would probably be a good idea to just shoot her in the back of the head and have done with it.

Silently raising his Browning, he took careful aim.

A yelp a few yards away betrayed the presence of Bradeley as he stubbed his toe, again. Timothy inwardly cursed and hoped as the silence of the night returned like a stifling blanket, but it was not to be.

The child froze...and began to turn...

Wulfric hissed quietly in shock behind him as he took in the child's face...or what was left of it. Her eyes were gone, was the first thing Timothy noticed, but below the gaping bloody holes, the lower half her face appeared to have been ripped loose, white bone clearly visible, the remains of her jaw flopping uselessly on her chest, tongue lolling, blood and froth streaked down the front of the shirt. But the worst bit, in Timothy's mind, was the way the loose flesh seemed to wriggle and heave...it was maggots. Her face was being eaten by maggots.

Tasting bile in his throat, he took the shot, a sharp crack in the silence, and caught her cleanly between the eyes. She rocked back and forth on her feet, seemingly bewildered, so he shot her again.

She slowly crumpled to the floor in a ragged pathetic little heap, dislodged maggots squirming in the road by her still form.

"She was probably already dead," Wulfric murmured behind him. Timothy grimaced, swallowing thickly; it still didn't make it any better.

"We'd better get on," he muttered back grimly, "before we get caught by any stragglers attracted to the noise."

oOo

The closer they got to the rendezvous point Carrow had insisted on, the louder the sounds of fighting, the crackle of gun fire, shouts and yells.

"Your brother get ambushed again?" Wulfric asked as he shot a crawling thing in the head, carefully stepping around its trailing intestines.

Timothy sighed heavily. "He does seem to attract them, doesn't he? Shall we go and rescue him?"

Normally the Town Square would have been a pleasant place; roughly rectangular, cobbled, with a row of trees along one side, surrounded by buildings of various vintages, not one younger than a hundred years old. It would have been a nice place to sit on a summer afternoon at a cafe table with a cup of coffee, just watching the world go by. At the moment, though...

...it was a scene of chaos and carnage illuminated by strings of multicoloured bulbs that criss-crossed the square. The FV-432 acted as a mobile fortress at one end as Matthew and his squad on top fighting off the horde of moaning, hissing, deformed creatures that threatened to swarm them.

Timothy clicked his radio. "Delta one-tree receiving,"

"'bout time you got here, Purgatus-secundus, over," the crackling reply came.

"Like any assistance, over?" Timothy asked smirking, as his brother used his rifle-butt to batter an overly inquisitive tentacle thing.

"Don't feel you have to hold back, Purgatus-secundus, there's plenty to go round, over," his brother's voice crackled out of the radio, sounding out of breath and annoyed.

"How very generous of you, out." Timothy grinned. "You heard him, people."

Granger gleefully moved forward, the mini-gun at the ready. Spraying the swarming crowd of broken bodies in short efficient bursts, she rapidly cleared a space, Juno and Athena moving up to cover her flanks with bursts of super heated plasma fire. The nearest shambling figures changed their focus, at first confused, but then increasingly angry at this new intrusion on their territory, throwing themselves at Timothy and his people as they began to make their way towards the besieged APC. The use of rifles became harder, and increasingly they turned to their blades...bayonets, swords, the butts of their rifles...as the creatures pressed in closer trying to swamp them, split them up, overwhelming with their rotten stench, their empty sockets and mutilated limbs, their liquidising flesh hanging loosely...

A bellow of fury, more like a physical force than a noise, echoed around the square, rattling windows, as something large and brutal bludgeoned its way into the press of bodies, snarling prayers of purity, tossing broken bodies into the air, the vampires following in Carrow's wake like silent murderous shadows.

The press around Timothy and his entourage lessened, to their relief, as the creatures scrambled to deal with this new threat, even as it scythed through them like some prehistoric god brought to life, smiting them down with righteous fury.

They made it to the FV432 as Matthew's squad began to scramble down to take care of the stragglers. Circling the vehicle and spreading out, they quickly cleared their end of the square, taking down maimed stragglers with bullets to the head, beheading twitching scrabbling things that lay on the cobbles.

Taking the opportunity, Timothy pulled out a Black Russian for a quiet smoke in the shelter of the APC, jerking slightly as Annie and Caroline sidled past him, intent on joining Granger in her hunt for live creatures for summary execution.

"Tim," a voice asked quietly. He turned to find his brother, pale and grimy, slime streaked down his front, standing there. Frankly he didn't look much better himself. "Fitch got bitten by one of those...things. We've done our best...but it's obviously not a normal wound. I was wondering if..."

"I'll come and have a look," Timothy replied carefully stubbing out his cigarette and storing it. Fitch had been made as comfortable as they could on top of the FV432, his normally dark complexion ashen and sweating, his eyes feverish.

"Bloody stupid it was," he muttered through gritted teeth, "little kid in the middle of the road all alone...no parents...approached him...freaking zombie...thing...face like a..." He gulped and swallowed screwing his eyes up in pain. "It_ bit_ me...why didn't we get trained for zombie attacks?"

"Good question," Timothy murmured soothingly as he gently peeled back the goopey stinking bandage on Fitch's forearm. "When we get out of here, you'll be able to write the book on it."

Fitch chuckled weakly, before seeming to doze off.

Timothy grimaced as he examined the wound. Green and oozing, it stunk, red streaks of infection spreading up to the unfortunate man's elbow.

"We've done what we could with what we've got," Matthew heaved a stuttering sigh, "human bites are nasty, but this...it's less than half an hour old."

Timothy nodded his head, pulling out his medi-kit. "It's not natural, Mattie. I'm not even sure Wizarding medi-potions will do much. We might have to amputate his arm...or failing that, shoot him in the head," he said as he poured a concentrated sterilizing potion on to a fresh lint pad, "but we'll save that as a last resort." He gave his brother a reassuring smile.

Matthew grimaced, not at all happy with the suggestion; but what could he do in this situation? He hated to admit it, but he was currently so far out of his depth he might as well be trying to sail across the Atlantic in an inflatable dinghy, and so he watched his brother wrapping a fresh bandage around his Second's arm, coat buttons glinting in the multi-coloured illumination...the buttons...the skull and "I"...the massive crater and all those bodies, the destroyed mausoleum...he glanced over the corpse strewn square, almost groaning. Now it all made sense.

Timothy looked up at him with concern. "It's highly likely that a bite like this could spread the infection that causes _that,_" Timothy continued jabbing a finger at the shredded bodies littering the ground nearby. "Better dead than _that_...well...we'll see...but we will have to decide soon, because this infection is moving quickly."

A giant gauntlet appeared, crackling with unnatural light; there was a sudden pulse, and it was gone, leaving behind the scent of ozone and a faded memory of a distant summer's day. Fitch's face relaxed and his breathing became less laboured as he drifted into genuine sleep.

"Or we could just do that," Timothy commented, smiling up at Carrow."Thank-you," he said, gently patting the large man's arm.

"Yeah, thank you," Matthew said, giving Carrow a small smile, clasping his huge gauntlet quickly.

"I'm taking it," Timothy said, "that you've currently run out of things to kill."

Carrow's slightly bewildered body language turned to extreme disgust as he hunched his shoulders, a strange gesture in power armour. "Absolutely pathetic, no stamina at all," he growled, almost whining. "I suspect, however, that they were merely cannon fodder...for something else."

"We've still got the rest of the town to explore...and cleanse," Timothy said.

"Wonderful," Carrow sneered, "more cannon fodder."

Movement in the doorway of a nearby building caught his attention, his auspex sending targeting reticules flickering into his field of view. Drawing his plasma pistol, he stalked forward.

Shouldering past the frail remains of double doors, he executed the slimy squirming grey things that lurked there with a series of plasma blasts. Looking round carefully for more targets, he found he had entered the foyer of a...theatre...or the remains of one...the shattered remains of ticket booths...dark passages leading off...stairs leading up...cracked and decaying gilded plaster work...and over it all an aura of sickness, of utter wrongness which permeated this place like a psykic fog...

A tiny sound, something skidding on metal, barely perceptible to even his senses caused him to freeze.

He was not alone.

He sidled carefully towards the sound, up the shattered remains of low stairs which cracked and groaned under his weight, and into...he carefully looked round. This had been the actual theatre with its rows of red upholstered seats and the dark remains of balconies climbing up behind him...box seats...the empty cavern of the stage...all of it covered with rubble, plaster from the ornate ceiling which had caved in revealing shadowed beams and in places the night sky. The tragic ruins of the local town's culture, a sad depressing sight he had seen repeated hundreds if not thousands of times.

There it was again, something shifting...something...he dodged out of the way, rolling across the rubble of plaster and seating, springing back to his feet, as something large and dark and pulsating with psykic contamination launched itself from the gloom of the rafters, crashing to the floor in a swelter of many legs, its weight crushing the rubble underneath.

The thing, a heaving sac of...a faceless worm, its sensory feelers and...oral sphincter surrounded by a mane of bristling hair, its segmented body supported by a multitude of jointed spiderlike legs...

Carrow circled slowly to the left, his senses on overdrive as his mind processed every tiny movement this...abomination made, darting in with his sword at every opportunity. The creature did its best to follow, its heavy body swaying as it moved clumsily, trying to attack this annoying ant that harried it at every possibility.

It became clearer, as Carrow circled, that this beast's body was transparent, its internal organs pulsing obscenely in the green glow of his auspex display...and then something twitched. A small hand pressed up against the creature's flank, and his vision rearranged itself. There were people in there, pale, distorted, crushed up one against another, more and more twisted and maimed the further along the thing's flank he looked, until...he curled his lip in disgust. The abomination had to die.

He darted in, his power-sword crackling with energy, testing the defences, the limitations of this foul worm, slashing and thrusting at the exposed fleshy sides, hacking through chitinous limbs in oozes of goopy ichor. The creature hissed and moaned in pain and rage as it struggled to get at its attacker, thrashing and straining against the walls of the building that caged it in. Stones and mortar trickled down in places as the walls cracked under the strain, but still the building held firm.

Carrow narrowed his eyes as he dodged and parried a stabbing limb; if he stayed here, the unnatural creature would probably try and crush him, which would be annoying. And that was if the building didn't collapse first; time to lure it outside.

A ball of warp-fyre had the thing spasming in anguish, a bubbling hiss its scream of torment, disgorging the twisted and maimed remnants of people in a stinking slimy puddle.

The creatures staggered to their feet, disoriented and vacant, their eye sockets bleeding holes. Scenting around themselves, they were drawn to the threat to their "mother" as Carrow continued to harry and harass the creature. Stumbling forward, they began to crowd through sheer numbers.

Within the confines of his helmet, Carrow grinned; this was just getting more and more interesting. He sent a series of fire-balls through the crowd, scything into them with his power sword, the soft flesh and scrabbling limbs of his would-be attackers powerless against his assault.

Sensing the death of its "children", the worm reared up and lunged forward, striking at him, attempting to swallow him whole. Carrow dodged easily, his power sword leaping up, maiming the facial orifice of the foul thing and lopping through sensory feelers. The worm jerked back, thrashing in pain and struck again, trying to throw its bulk at him despite the small confines of the old theatre, thrashing against the already weakened walls of the hollowed out building, attempting to gain purchase to launch itself at this deadly threat.

The roof above them began to groan and creak alarmingly as it shifted under the strain, pieces of plaster showering down.

Carrow darted forward, ignoring the grasping, biting creatures. Seeing an opportunity, he dug his power sword deep into the side of the worm and heaved it down the flank of the creature, opening up its side in a huge gaping wound, ichor and half-digested people flopping onto the cold concrete floor in a sudden wash of fluid, pitiful mewling creatures that flopped and moaned and cried for a quick death. Carrow paid them no heed as he leapt out of the way of the worm's agonised thrashing.

The roof gave a final groan, unable to take the stresses and strains it was being subjected to, showering down on the dying worm. Carrow darted back out into the town square.

Outside, his people battled the corrupted creatures that had managed to slip past him, backed up by the squad of PDF...soldiers; he still wasn't comfortable with the idea of nation states. One thing he was very clear about, though, was that the older Faulks brother was just as impressive, had just as much potential as his sibling. Now, if he could persuade him he really wanted a change of employer...maybe he should just steal them. It had worked with Wulfric.

The worm struggled free from the heap of wreckage, wheezing, trailing a glistening path of slime and maimed people who limply struggled and thrashed like dying fish.

Carrow barred his teeth in a feral grin; time for the death blow. Pulling his force-staff from its place at his back, he raised it before him, bale-fyre already gathering around the skull and dripping down the shaft to his gauntlets, where it played around his fingers, before looping back up the shaft. The pressure behind his eyes increased until it became a blinding pain, but he bore it stoically, allowing the strength of the fire of the Emperor's Breath build around him, basking in its radiant purity...

...and then he let it go. The psykic pressure wave nearly drove him to his knees, but Carrow stood firm bracing himself in the face of this virtually invisible maelstrom...

...and then it was over. The silence of the night returned, nearby an animal called, a fox maybe, a few birds twittered disturbed from their sleep before falling silent once more.

The worm was no more; in its place lay a sizable mound of shrivelled, blackened skeletons, pieces of charred flesh still clinging on in places. Carrow examined it curiously, delicately stepping over shrivelled corpses, removing his helmet as he went; interestingly, the mound was shaped much like the worm itself...

"What the bloody, fucking hell?!" a furious and rather shaken voice bellowed.

Carrow lifted an eyebrow in amusement as he turned and walked back to the others. What were they getting upset about now? His people were busily extricating themselves from whatever shelter they'd taken, brushing themselves down, checking their weapons, wary of any potential attack. He'd trained them well; in a few years time they would be formidable.

"You could have given us some bloody warning," one of the vampires snarled. Some of the others sniggered.

Timothy came over, stepping round the dead, eyeing him carefully, for what Carrow could only guess. "Did you enjoy yourself?" Timothy asked patronisingly, as he pulled out a cigarette.

Carrow snorted to himself, watching the soldiers pulling themselves to their feet. They appeared to be shaken, but none the worse for wear; none had soiled themselves, none were gibbering wrecks...obviously the people of Ancient Terra were made sterner stuff. He smiled in approval.

"We aren't finished here yet," he announced, "we need to cleanse this entire place. As our resources are rather limited, our best option is fire."

"What?" Matthew asked bewildered.

Carrow tilted his head considering the smaller man for a moment. "Consider it in these terms...the people here were sick with a highly contagious...plague. Even though they are dead, they are still a potential hazard for those who are healthy, so the simplest way to prevent the spread of this plague is fire... cleansing, purifying fire. Do you understand?" Carrow asked.

Matthew looked around the scene of utter carnage, the shattered remains of the square, twisted blackened lumps that used to be people, the ruined opera house, now little more than a heap of rubble...

He swallowed the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up and overwhelm him. Nodding, he looked up at Carrow. "We've got a can of petrol that I'm willing to let you have."

"Petrol?" Carrow asked puzzled.

"Yeah," Matthew said, "you know...fuel..."

Carrow turned, and stared rather pointedly at Timothy.

Timothy took a drag of his Black Russian. "Petrol, gasoline," he tried, receiving blank looks from the giant man. "Promethium," he sighed.

"Promethium," Carrow grinned, "yes, that will do very nicely. If you've seen any more in any of these buildings, we can put that to good use also."

"Promethium?" Matthew hissed at his brother. Timothy just shrugged, "Carrowism," he muttered round his cigarette.

"Right," Matthew said, watching one of his squad run back with the spare fuel can.

oOo

It had taken several hours to make sure that the most heavily infected parts of the town were thoroughly doused. Fortunately, they'd found what appeared to be the local petrol station, and had managed to siphon off enough fuel to do the job.

And now it was alight, a giant pyre to the senseless and strange deaths of so many people.

"You know," Matthew said to no one in particular, "come tomorrow this place is going to be crawling with UN observers and all sorts."

Carrow looked at him oddly. "Why? It is merely a fire, one of many I'm sure, completely unremarkable in the context of a war-zone." He was quite put out as all the ordinary people turned and looked at him as if he'd said something supremely stupid.

"That huge crater at the Victory Mausoleum, all those bodies...that was _you_," Matthew said exasperated. "We spent three weeks nursing UN observers, weapons specialists and all sorts round the place. Nice hand prints in the gun barrel, by the way." He gave Carrow a sarcastic double thumbs-up. "I've no idea what you did to that APC though."

Timothy coughed guiltily.

Carrow stared at Matthew for a moment, before closing his eyes with a growl. "I'm...used to larger wars than this...something like that would quickly have been destroyed, swept away by shifting battle fronts..." He sighed heavily, watching the burning town, the flames leaping into the sky as it burned out of control, a towering cloud of smoke that would be visible for miles around.

"We are done here." Carrow turned to Timothy and the others. "Ready your port-keys for transport." He looked thoughtfully at the soldiers. "If ever any of you desire a change of employer, talk to Interrogator Faulks. I would be... happy to have you." He gave them what he felt to be an encouraging smile. It was strange how they looked rather pale, he thought, as he activated the port-key.

"Whoa... teleportation," one of the soldiers whispered appreciatively, as the vampires all disappeared in quick succession.

"Hey... Wulfric, right?" Matthew called to the only one dressed in sensible colours. "Why are you in khaki, and they're not?"

Wulfric and Timothy exchanged a look, Timothy shaking his head in exasperation.

"I can't possibly wear black," Wulfric said, horrified, "I'm a soft autumn."

OOOOOO

"What do you mean, they wouldn't believe you?" Timothy asked in annoyance, as he negotiated a particularly tricky mini roundabout, made worse by the uncompromising bulk of the Hummer.

Wulfric looked out the window a moment. "Well, you know... they took some convincing that I hadn't in fact decided to run away or jump ship or something." He sighed heavily. "Fortunately for me, someone had actually come forward and reported witnessing Carrow kidnapping me," he shook his head in exasperation, "I mean, there were witnesses and everything... do people really find Carrow doing something like that that unbelievable?"

"Probably," Timothy said, grimacing, "he's one of those things that have to be experienced to be really understood."

Wulfric grinned. "We're the Carrow Survivors' Club."

Timothy gave an amused huff.

"Well, to cut a long story short, they want me to spy on Carrow," Wulfric said.

Timothy stared at him incredulously, before jerking his attention back to the road as the Hummer swerved slightly.

"My thoughts exactly," Wulfric smiled tightly. "I warned them that if I did that, Carrow would know, blackmail me into being a double agent, and then use me to feed them misinformation. They were pretty patronizing about it, didn't seem to believe me about what he's like." He sighed heavily.

"So, when I got back to the Lodge, Carrow was waiting for me with that really creepy smirk of his." Wulfric scowled. "He _already _knew about the entire meeting."

"So in other words," Timothy said slowly, "he's already infiltrated the Magical division of the FBI... and they don't know."

"Exactly," Wulfric nodded.

"Wonderful," Timothy grimaced, "I suppose at least it will keep him occupied for a while."

The car-phone began to ring, an insistent chirping over the rumble of the engine.

"Deer speaking," Wulfric cheerfully announced into the phone, before falling silent, his expression becoming serious, before a smile gradually spread across his face. "Hmm, hmm...yes, sure, I'll tell him...sure...no, not long...okay, we'll see you...maybe in fifteen minutes or so...okay, bye."

Timothy had been casting him sideways looks, trying to discern the nature of the conversation, but to his frustration he could only just make out the tinny murmur of the caller; definitely female though. He sighed heavily; he was already having a bad day, first having to pick up Wulfric from the American Embassy, but worse still his dolman, his nice, comparatively plain black dolman was utterly ruined. Zombie slime didn't brush off, even when dry, and when he'd asked the house elves...it was worse than Mum's tame plumber. They'd looked at the ruined jacket and trousers with much frowning and sucking of teeth, tutting and muttering. "We's not sure this is rescue-able," they'd finally announced, "we's take...give us a week," and they'd popped away with the heavily soiled garments.

And so he was stuck wearing the horrible gold-braid smothered effort. Maybe he should wear this one for the field, and save the black one for everyday... though Chuddy's sarcasm...Timothy winced.

"So, who was that?" he asked as Wulfric replaced the handset.

"Mrs Thorpe, wanting to know how long we'll be," Wulfric grinned.

"Problems?" Timothy asked, shooting him a look.

"Well..." Wulfric drew it out, enjoying his friend's frustration, "Felix had a tantrum when his maths tutor arrived, and went and hid...hmm...the people from World of Interiors have arrived to do the, err, photo shoot..."

Timothy swore; how could he have forgotten _that?_

"Oh, it gets worse," Wulfric continued remorselessly, "Artemis has climbed into the back of their van, and is refusing to move...Felix finally appeared from wherever he was hiding to see what all the fuss is about...and Mrs Thorpe can't find Carrow."

Timothy snarled to himself. Why had he bothered to get up this morning... okay, stupid question, there'd been an overly friendly tiger lounging on his bed, and Annie and Caroline giggling at him because his hair was sticking up at the back. He put his foot down and swerved dangerously round a lorry. What gods had he angered to have a life like this?

They drew into the main courtyard of the Lodge ten minutes later, to find a number of unfamiliar cars, and a van, its back doors wide open, parked near the main entrance, a small crowd of people gathered at a safe distance nearby, watching in fascination.

Timothy snarled to himself, muttering uncharitable things about overgrown felines who'd make better rugs.

Jamming his peaked cap on firmly, he stalked over, his leather storm-coat swirling around him, a grinning Wulfric trailing in his wake. Rounding the van, he came to a halt at the sight of Artemis in the back of the van, sprawled over cases, no doubt full of delicate photographic equipment, giving the corner of one crush-proof case an experimental chew. She was making some head-way too; obviously not tiger-proof.

"Artemis," he snapped, glaring at the errant feline. Where was Carrow when you actually needed him?

Artemis looked up at the familiar voice with an expression of complete and utter innocence.

"Out of there, now," he snapped, not taken in for a moment.

Artemis oozed out of the back of the van and trotted over to delicately sniff at the tyre of the Hummer as if that was what she'd intended to do all along, shooting him a look over her shoulder.

He turned to the watching crowd, spying the errant boy lurking at the back. "Felix Trebor, to your tutor _now,_ please," Timothy growled.

Felix glared, his ears flat against his skull, tail twitching form side to side. Timothy raised an eyebrow at his young charge. "You have a year's education to catch up on, young man, no excuses. Mr Carrow expects you to equal, if not exceed, the requirements for your age group."

Huffing in annoyance, shoulders slumped, Felix turned and headed back inside, his tutor following along behind, sending Timothy a thankful grin as he went.

The fascinated stares that had previously been focused on Artemis and Felix now focused solely on him; Timothy felt his cheeks begin to heat up...gold braid, _blasted_ gold braid...pretend everything is boringly normal and soldier on...he pulled himself together.

"Hello, Timothy," a familiar voice full of amusement said.

Timothy jerked round, hiding his surprise behind his frozen mask, at the sight of Freya looking as stylish and elegant as when they had last met. "Miss Phillips-Worthington, a pleasure to see you again." He shook her hand and attempted a smile, though considering some of the winces, it didn't work.

"I'll err, just leave you to it then," Wulfric said as he sauntered past with a grin over his shoulder.

_Coward!_ Timothy thought, glaring at Wulfric's rapidly retreating back.

oOo

Exhausted but happy, Hermione pulled her bulging kit-bag out of the back of Dad's car. She'd had to leave the min-gun in the armoury back at the Lodge; such a pity, she'd got rather fond of it. At least she'd been able to bring her pistol with her...and her knife collection. Her aim was starting to get really good with the set of small throwing knives Chuddy had given her; now how upset would Mum be, if she set up a dart-board in the garage to practise?

She came to an abrupt halt by the horribly familiar red car parked by Mum's nice sober forest green fiesta. Turning, Hermione levelled an accusing glare at Dad.

"I know, I know," Dan Granger sighed, "you don't get on with your cousins, but Auntie Lindsay is your Mum's sister, and they're close, goodness knows why, and we would both really like to see something of you this summer. So please...sweetie, grit your teeth and bare it. It's only for a few days...for your Mum and me?"

Hermione sighed heavily, giving the car another look of deep loathing. "Okay, Dad," she said, adjusting the heft of her kit-bag again, "for you and Mum."

Dan grinned down at his little darling. He was definitely digging his camera out, she looked so adorable in that coal-scuttle helmet, which, being a little too large, sat slightly askew, tufts of brown curls escaping from underneath.

It was as bad as she'd been expecting, Hermione thought to herself, as she peered into the living room, her helmet clattering slightly against the door as it hung loose from its strap around her neck. Auntie Lindsay and Uncle Jack were deep in conversation with Mum as she told them a boring adult story, something to do with the surgery; which was probably hilarious if you were in your early forties and ran your own dental practice.

Sighing, she eased her way past the door. Oh, there was Zach, looking bored out of his mind...and Piper, the spoilt little girly princess, though she wasn't quite as pink and girly as last time. Obviously, Auntie Lindsay wasn't quite having her way as much over what Piper wore...oh yuck...makeup, heavily and inexpertly applied. _Oh, and she's seen me..._

"What _are_ you wearing?" Piper sneered, amusement flickering in her eyes. Zach's head snapped round as finally something interesting happened, goggling at his bookish cousin.

"Darling!" Mum bounced up and rushed over to give her a hug. "Did you have a nice time? Did Allesandor get the invitation to dinner? Yes? Oh, wonderful, and what have you done to your hair, darling?" Mum looked at the shorn remains of her curls with horror.

Hermione shrugged unapologetically. "It was annoying me, getting in the way all the time, and when we went out for a...practice run...well, it was impossible to manage, so...I just chopped it off."

"With a kitchen knife, from the looks of it! Oh, really dear," Mum ran a hand over her shorn curls, "I'll take you to the hairdressers; at least they can even it up a little."

Hermione nodded; she had, after all, taken a leaf out of Natasha's book and had taken a knife to the wretched stuff, it had been so annoying, but she'd left a single braid to hang in front of her right ear, wrapped carefully in red thread which she'd further decorated with gold coloured beads she'd carefully transfigured into skulls. If Timothy could wear his house colours, so could she.

"I'll...just take my stuff upstairs, okay?" Hermione hefted her kit bag.

Mum looked down. "Goodness, dear," she exclaimed, "looks like you've brought back more than you took. Washing in the laundry basket, remember... and aren't you hot in that coat?"

"Yes, Mum," Hermione dutifully said, looking down at her woollen great coat, "it was easier to wear it than carry it."

It was shocking just how quickly dirty washing could build up. She was certain that she'd not taken _that_ many clothes with her, but the laundry pile was beginning to say otherwise. Growling in frustration, she carefully upended the canvas kit bag over her bed, mindful of some of the more delicate bits and pieces she'd brought home with her.

Hermione surveyed the pile of belongings critically, quickly extracting the box containing her new pistol. She'd taken a leaf out of Timothy's book and liberated it from one of the fallen. With help and advice from Juno and Athena, she'd managed to get the poor rusty thing back into full working order. There was some debate over what model it was; the only thing that anyone could agree on was that it was of Russian manufacture. Putting the box in her bedside table, she locked the drawer, and then drew a warding rune on it with her own saliva. It wouldn't stop anyone magical who knew what they were about, but it would foil Piper.

Now that was better, she thought, as she began to sort out the dozen or so books she'd carefully packed at the bottom, but had somehow managed to tangle themselves with her assault vest.

"What's _that_?" Piper's shrill voice sounded behind her. "Some of this stuff really _stinks_."

Hermione turned and glared. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

Piper stepped back, shocked at her normally passive cousin's response, but she quickly rallied. "It looks stupid anyway... boy's things," she drawled condescendingly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her lip curling in a passable imitation of one Carrow's nastier expressions.

But Piper ploughed on heedlessly. "I've got Snow Serenade Barbie," she announced smugly, holding up a pink and white frothy sparkling confection. Hermione stared at the plastic thing in disgust.

"Aren't you a little old to be playing with dolls?" Hermione asked sweetly.

Piper froze, clutching the plastic toy to her chest, eyes wide and upset, before storming from the room, nearly running her brother over, sobbing, which quickly turned into screams as she thundered down the stairs. _Typical_, Hermione huffed in annoyance, _spoilt, immature little_...

oOo

One of the World of Interiors people kept bursting into hysterical laughter, and it was really starting to get on Timothy's nerves. He'd tried to give them a quick tour of the house before letting them sort themselves out with what they were going to photograph, when, where and with what sort of equipment...but it had quickly degenerated into something else, silent, eyes glazing over at yet another room full of treasures, untouched glories, family heirlooms...only Freya seemed unaffected, stopping to admire the new pieces of fifties Italian glass Carrow had found in a cupboard somewhere and added to the collection in the Breakfast Room...the curious sculpture of found objects displayed in a wire birdcage in the Green Living Room. Timothy was unsure of the significance of the half-full matchbox or the rubber glove, but his mind enjoyed picking over the enigma. To be honest, he was beginning to find their behaviour rather annoying; they didn't seem to be as interested as Freya had assured him they would be...

...maybe they'd find the newly finished Formal Reception Room to be of some interest. Carrow had done a rather impressive job on the place...

"Mr Carrow has finished decorating a further room, if you'd like to see," he offered, feeling rather tentative, but doing his best to hide it, "just this way." He gestured to the double leaf door with the finely carved and gilded mouldings.

One of the photographers, nodded at him, his expression oddly feverish, a Polaroid camera clutched in his hands (Timothy had noted that he'd already got through several packs of films), and opened the door, slipping through, Artemis padding in after him, her hemp rope ball clutched in her jaws.

Timothy sighed, heavily turning to the others. Freya was carefully examining a still-life painting, one he believed was a traditional vanitas, an allegory, a reminder of the fleetingness and fragility of life...

...he shook himself. Several of the others were gazing up at the intricate and rather free-form plaster work of the ceiling, while another was...actually on his hands and knees, examining the carpet...Timothy blinked in surprise...and behind them...there seemed to be a rather quiet, but very intense argument going on. He sighed heavily. He had hoped that this would bear fruit, would be a good way of introducing Carrow as an upstanding member of society...

"Monty's gone awfully quiet," Freya commented from beside him, "I hope Artemis hasn't mistaken him for a new toy."

Timothy looked down, to find Freya gazing up at him, eyebrow quirked, stylishly dishevelled locks of hair drifting from her messy bun.

"Maybe he's decided to have a nap due to acute boredom," he muttered back.

Freya gave him a funny look. "Boredom? I don't think he's going to sleep for a week after this," she snorted with laughter, as she stepped through the double doors, Timothy at her heels.

The Formal Reception Room was in the newer part of the house, high ceilinged, its walls lined with elaborate panelling in the Classical style, circa 1630. At some point it had been painted; Timothy was unclear as to whether this was original or a later ancestral Potter leaving their mark on the house. The delicate shade of fern green was, in Timothy's opinion, pleasant and elegant, further enhanced by various details and mouldings being picked out with gilding. Hanging down from the ceiling with its strap-work plasterwork was a chandelier, mainly of brass, but with a smattering of cut-glass crystals. There'd been a fight between the house-elves and the cleaning ladies over them. Timothy frowned as he looked up. It wasn't particularly pretty or ornate, but it was old...when did chandeliers first come along? He sighed heavily to himself; more research.

A fireplace dominated at one end of the room, the stone insert surrounded by a massive over-mantel and surround of heavily carved oak. Green-men and exuberant foliage dominated the vaguely classical design.

The wooden floor was also a delight, parquet, a tumbling block design surrounded by an elaborate border made of multiple varieties of wood, all covered with the ubiquitous Persian carpets. Was there a Potter who hadn't gone to Persia to buy a rug, Timothy idly wondered.

The furniture was mostly contemporary to the room, Jacobean, rather lumpish and heavily carved, and re-upholstered at some point with violently coloured Berlin wool-work in slightly shabby condition; most of it was highly floral in nature with the odd butterfly or bird, except for one chair that would be forever cursed with a basket of kittens, one of which was patting at a passing butterfly, and thereby proving that wealth and high social-station did not guarantee good taste.

A curio cabinet stood against one wall, the proper sort with the mirrored interior and marquetry scenes depicting various Classical myths on the doors. Carrow had filled it with a particularly adventurous Potter's collection of Chinese porcelain and carved jade. The drawers, when he'd investigated, held cardboard boxes of netsuke, carefully labelled fossils and several biscuit tins filled with pieces of broken pottery and teseri.

More family portraits hung on the walls, watching disapprovingly at the interlopers into their domain, carefully framed by the arches of the panelling while various bronze sculptures stood in strategic places around the room. These were, Timothy understood, the results of Bartholomew Potter's little trip to Italy in the late 1590's where he'd spent a considerable sum on tourist tat (a number of his mother's letters had been rather sarcastic about it), and of course there was the portrait of the man himself that now hung near the fireplace.

All in all a rather nice room, fresh and light, nothing particularly strange or outlandish; Carrow had been rather restrained in here.

"Is everything all right?" he asked as he strolled over to Freya and the strangely quiet photographer.

Monty pointed a shaking finger. "Isn't that a Caravaggio?" he asked, his voice trembling with...Timothy couldn't quite put his finger on it; he looked up at the painting of the tousle haired youth with his lively hazel eyes, that gazed out dark and heavy lidded, and that knowing smirk that promised...all sorts of things.

"I do not know," a deep rumbling growl sounded behind them, "but the sitter is rumoured to be Bartholomew Charlus Potter who had a...torrid affair with a local artist when he toured Italy in the late 1590's."

Timothy turned slowly on the spot, ignoring Freya's gasp of surprise and Monty's frantic camera juggling. He had come to the realisation recently that when looked at magically, Carrow was rather like a spot of high pressure, or maybe like a black hole. Disguisable he was not.

"I believe it was never hung in his mother's lifetime," the giant man continued. "His wife wasn't keen either."

Beside him, one of the portraits, a particularly severe looking witch with a high black hat and a very impressive ruff gave a disapproving snort; Timothy ignored it as best he could.

"Good morning, Mr Carrow," Timothy murmured politely, "I hope your appointment was...fruitful."

Carrow gave him a shark like grin. "Indeed," he rumbled, before eyeing the two interlopers into his domain, ignoring the excited head-butting of Artemis as she tried to get his attention.

Timothy glared at the giant man. Oh, wonderful; just to add to his current problems, Carrow had decided to wear over a body-glove what could only be described as a chiton, unbelted, black, edged with an elaborate gold border and pinned at his shoulders, a large knife visible in its calf holster. He groaned, visions of what Freya and her colleagues were likely to write about the blasted lump flashing through his mind. _Mr Allesandor Carrow, lovable English eccentric, with a unique sartorial approach..._

Digging out a cigarette, he lit it with a quick snap of his fingers, watching as Carrow politely shook Freya's hand, inquiring as to her health, before advancing on Monty in a menacingly friendly sort of way. Monty obviously didn't appreciate it very much, as he stuttered through a greeting, face ashen and eyes wild, as he took in the huge muscles, powerful hands and a knife that was more akin to a short-sword.

Artemis, frustrated in her efforts at gaining her daddy's attention, began to leap up and down, jumping up against Carrow, reaching up with one huge paw in an attempt to pat his face, chuffing and muttering as she did so. Carrow looked down with a small smile at his beloved pet, and scooped her up, massaging the back of her neck until she turned boneless in his arms. At least someone was happy, Timothy thought, as he took a drag of his Black Russian.

Freya gave the pair a thoughtful look.

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Timothy watched Freya with an increasing sense of anxiety, praying she didn't do or say anything dangerous...for her.

"So...Artemis must take a lot of care..."Freya commented, "what is she like at the vet's? Have you familiarised her...or trained her, so she doesn't find it upsetting?"

Carrow looked at her blankly, his fingers stilling for a moment much to Artemis's displeasure. He turned to his secretary, bewilderment colouring his expression. "What's a vet?" he asked.

Timothy groaned quietly.

oOo

It was pleasantly cool and dark in the confines of the garage, the chatter of adult voices, and the smell of the barbecue drifting in through the open door. With a bit of careful wedging involving some bricks, Hermione managed to make the hideous plastic doll stand upright. She stood back to admire her handiwork.

Perfect.

This was so going to make up for the last few days. Piper had been as awful as she'd predicted, dogging her every step (except when she went for her morning runs, since apparently _real_ girls didn't do that), criticising and generally being very annoying. Previously, all this would have had her in tears by now, but not this time. She, Hermione Jane Granger was now made of sterner stuff, so she wasn't going to get upset, oh no- she gave the nasty toy an evil grin- she was going to teach the bullying little cow a lesson.

Pulling out her pistol, she gave it one last check over. Everything appeared to be in working order, no rust, barrel clear, ammo loaded properly in its clip...she pulled out a rag and gave the gun a last careful wipe, taking a look at the runes of silence she'd carefully scratched on the barrel. They reduced the noise of the gun to a mere muffled pop without any appreciable effect on its performance. Chuddy had been so impressed he'd insisted she give his pistol the same treatment. She'd had so much fun this summer, learnt so much, and made so many friends. She couldn't wait for Hogwarts; there was so much she could show the Defence club. In fact, she'd already started putting together lesson plans...so exciting...

Bracing herself in a kneeling position, Hermione carefully sighted along the barrel, slipping the safety off as she did so.

"Whoa," came a gasp behind her, followed by a clatter as the owner of the voice accidentally kicked an old can of paint in his haste to back away.

Hermione slipped the safety back on, muzzle pointed at the floor as she twisted to see who it was, not Piper for certain, as there was a definite lack of spiteful screaming, but one of the adults...if Mum found out she'd got a gun...

No, just Zach. Still pretty awful, then.

"Erm," he began, pale faced, looking from her gun to the doll and back again, "erm, what are you doing?"

Hermione considered him for a moment; pale skin, brown eyes like Mum and Aunt Lindsay, except that he'd also inherited their nice straight, manageable hair which he wore short with a thick fringe, not fat, but not fit either. Pretty average really, and currently looking at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.

"I'm just giving Piper a message," Hermione gestured with the muzzle of her pistol towards the doll, "expressing my feelings..." she shrugged, "take your pick."

Zach stared at her with a mixture of horror, awe and amusement. "This is revenge for the lesbian rant, isn't it?"

"Maybe." Hermione gave him a sideways glance.

Piper's rather disgusting tirade that morning had just been the last straw, the one that broke that camel's back. She'd almost expressed her rage directly but had reined herself in at the last moment.

Piper, upset at something, heaven only knew what, had been attacking her verbally for several days now, always when Mum and Auntie Lindsay and the other adults were out of ear-shot or otherwise distracted.

Hermione was a friendless swot, she was ugly, she would never get a man because she was too butch, she had a nasty personality so no would could every possibly like her, could they, the only way she would ever find someone to love her would be if she got a pet dog, or went with a woman, and in Piper's opinion, well, Hermione already looked the part...

And then Piper had started in on how much she hated lesbians, and how they all ought to be drowned at birth.

Hermione had just let it wash over her, enjoying watching Piper dig her own grave deeper with every word she spoke, as, unbeknownst to the other girl, Auntie Lindsay and Dad had slipped into the living room behind her, lured away from the kitchen and the adult conversation by the noise.

To say they were unimpressed by her behaviour was putting it mildly.

Piper was currently sulking on the patio with a glass of orange juice, a slightly singed burger, and a flea in her ear, the adults keeping a watchful eye on her.

Raising her pistol, Hermione took careful aim, safety off, the doll's head in her sight...

The head of the hideous toy exploded in a shower of twisted fragments and shredded plastic hair.

Cathartic, satisfying, wish fulfilment fulfilled, Hermione wasn't sure what fitted it best. Carefully slipping the safety back on, she stowed the pistol and walked over to carefully examine the breeze-block wall that had acted as part of her impromptu firing range. She'd been hoping...oh, yes, there...carefully she pried the bullet out, gleefully holding it up for her pale faced cousin to see.

"Well, it's just a matter of putting these back in the box now," she explained as she scooped up the remains of the doll, "and then sit back and watch the show." She gave an evil grin Carrow would have heartily approved of.

oOo

Standing in the shadow of the main entrance, Timothy watched the vehicles of the World of Interiors people as they departed down the drive, back ram-rod straight, his face a frozen mask. What had looked like a simple couple of days of disruption had turned into something major that promised to drag on for several weeks at the very least, and then one of the senior editors had mentioned four dreadful words; English Heritage, Inland Revenue. Timothy wasn't sure which was worse.

He plonked himself down on the steps, not caring who saw him and buried his face in his hands. There were times when he really wanted to scream. What did he do now? The thought of Carrow's reaction to English Heritage poking around the house didn't bear thinking about... and the idea of Inland Revenue asking awkward questions about death duties, and where precisely Carrow had been hiding all these years...

He rubbed his face, feeling as if he'd aged fifty years in a day. Why hadn't these possibilities occurred to him _before_ he sent that stupid letter?

Felix charged past, squealing in glee as he was finally let loose from the stifling confines of education, his favourite football in his arms, Artemis padding after him, sensing the opportunity for a game.

Timothy sighed as he watched the two dash around the gravelled courtyard, dodging and weaving in the sunshine. It was only a matter of time before Artemis bit the ball in two, and then of course the pair of ruffians would come trotting over, begging him to mend the sorry object. He'd mended that football so often it practically counted as a magical object in its own right.

A rustle of fabric was the only warning he got as Carrow settled himself down on the steps beside him.

"Your thoughts are troubled," Carrow murmured, as he watched Felix attempt to kick the ball as high as he could to Artemis's delight.

Timothy turned and glared at his oblivious boss, before sinking back into his depressed state with a huff.

"I apologise. I've...really mucked up with this, haven't I?" he eventually whispered. "I just didn't think of the possible ramifications of what we've...you've got here..." he trailed off staring unseeingly across the courtyard, as Artemis climbed on top of the hummer, sprawling languidly across its roof in the sunshine.

"What is English Heritage?" Carrow asked. "I've come across the name- they are an administratum department specialising in the... care of old buildings, yes?"

Timothy nodded, still sunk in misery.

"I'm curious," Carrow continued as he craned over his shoulder to look at the Lodge, "this isn't an old building, not at all. The most venerable parts of the building are, what, barely a thousand years in age, and those foundations they were so excited about, maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand years in age, Terran standard, of course. That's not old at all."

Timothy opened his mouth to protest, but Carrow beat him to it. "My armour is, as far as I am able to ascertain, around eight thousand years in age, its place and origin of manufacture lost in the midst of time. My sword is of a similar vintage. My pistol, on the other hand...that is a relic of a much earlier time, though again I do not know when it was manufactured. Records do show that it was likely made in the Manufactoriums of Mars, and was used in battle during the earliest days of the Crusade when the God-Emperor led his glorious armies out into the stars to conquer the Galaxy for Humanity..." He gazed upwards, his face pensive. "What incredible deeds it must have been a part of...what it must have witnessed..." He trailed off and turned to the wide-eyed Timothy with a smile. "The Lodge is lovely, homely, rustic even, an heirloom of my birth family, and I am very fond of it...but it isn't old."

What could he say to that? Timothy blinked, thought of something to say, changed his mind and tried again. "I think," he finally said, "that maybe because we're at the dawn of Humanity's history that things have changed, are changing very rapidly. I mean, there are people alive today who can actually remember the telephone as being new innovative cutting edge technology, who lived without electricity because only the wealthy could afford such a new-fangled thing in their homes. Things have changed so rapidly that...it's rare for things to survive unchanged and unaltered from century to century, and that's why they were so excited about the Lodge...it's virtually unique."

Carrow nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose...that makes sense. But I'm still unsure as to why I should be so concerned by English Heritage."

Artemis bounced up to him chuffing excitedly, attempting to scramble onto his lap, nuzzling at his face. Carrow draped his arms around her and turned to his secretary questioningly.

Timothy wove his shaking fingers through his hair and pulled out a cigarette. "They're going to slap a Grade I listing on the Lodge, it's inevitable you know...and then..well, you know you've got plans for increasing the security? Particularly at the main gates?"

He lit the Black Russian and inhaled with relief, breathing out smoke like some particularly frazzled dragon.

Carrow nodded, interested to see where this was going to go.

"That guardhouse you're planning to put up will need Listed Building Consent, which in this case will severely limit every aspect of its possible design inside and out, its precise placement, whether you can put in parking nearby...all sorts of things...and if they don't like it or they feel that you've contravened your planning permission in some way...well, you can try applying for new retro-active Listed Building Consent...or they'll make you pull it all down and return that part of the grounds to its original state, at your own cost, or face a hefty fine...or jail..." Timothy paused in his rant. "I've heard all sorts of horror stories, people driven into bankruptcy, committing suicide because they couldn't cope with the stress any longer, even having their homes compulsorily purchased out from under them..." He looked up at Carrow. Really, the man wasn't taking this at all seriously. He watched in exasperation, as Carrow kissed the back of one of Artemis's ears, too engrossed as she was with Felix's antics to notice. At the damp tickling sensation, she turned into a squirming heap of playful paws and snapping teeth, before bouncing up and rushing across the courtyard to where Felix was busily kicking his ball into the air.

Swiping the ball out of mid-air, she dribbled it furiously across the courtyard into a corner by the gateway, Felix trotting after her, shrieking with laughter. Artemis scrabbled at the ball, trying to get it away from the wall with little success, finally resorting to her teeth. The ball gave a sad little pop as she accidentally tore a gaping hole in it.

"Artemis!" Felix cried out, exasperated.

Timothy and Carrow watched in amusement as the mismatched pair made their way back with the sadly deceased ball.

"I'm still unsure as to the need for archaeologists to dig up my lawn," Carrow commented, as Timothy cast several Reparo charms on the rather crumpled and torn looking ball, "but all bureaucracies work in much the same way, so this really isn't going to go away. The easiest solution would be to employ a group of people, with the correct specialisations of course, to take care of this aspect of the Lodge...hmm, archivists, these archaeologists, some general adminstratum drone types, an art historian or two...and architects...and hmm...well, something for you to sort out over the next week, I think."

Timothy tried not to grind his teeth at the challenging smile Carrow was giving him. Blast it! Talk about tripling his workload. Maybe he should have a chat with Freya, see if she knew anyone suitable who'd be interested...

Felix ran back across the courtyard with an excited whoop, the now mended football held proudly above his head, Artemis bouncing along behind him.

"Politicians like to live in old, prestigious houses, don't they," Carrow said thoughtfully, "and I wouldn't be surprised if they liked to modify and leave their mark on these homes either...hmmm..."

Timothy jerked round, glaring at Carrow suspiciously. What was he up to now?

oOo

"So, like this then?" Ron asked, as he threaded the canvas strap through the metal loop on the back of the belt.

Hermione nodded as she handed him over a couple of the pouches. "That's it...then you want to put these ones on next."

"Not the double ones?" Ron asked, as he carefully threaded the squashy, battered pouches on to the belt.

"No, the ammo pouches go on the front. The harness attaches to the top there." She pointed to the loops on their tops.

"Okay," Ron muttered as he adjusted things to his satisfaction. The morning had been incredibly exciting and nerve-wracking all at once, his first proper trip in to the muggle world with Hermione and her mum and dad to get him properly equipped for the defence club. He wasn't going to get Christmas or birthday presents for years after this, but it was going to be worth it.

The crowded shop had been overwhelming; all sorts of strange objects and garments piled high, their purpose unguessable to a young wizard, the air full of the scent of dusty canvas and old gun oil. Dad would have been in heaven. Actually, he was glad Dad couldn't come; it would have been _so_ embarrassing having him running round the shop, poking his wand at stuff, and bombarding the staff with questions. And the staff had been really nice and helpful and understood his need to keep to a budget. A burly man with sandy hair had helped him, picking out all the right sizes of garments and boots he needed, discussing the differences and advantages between webbing, assault vests and chest-rigs, dissuading him from getting a gas mask and even finding him a nice sturdy Bergen to put everything in. The small pouch of money mum had given him had gone far indeed.

And so now he was attired from head to foot in combat gear...or was it fatigues...he still wasn't entirely sure, and why fatigues? Did it make you tired to wear them? All things considered, he could believe that.

"There," he triumphantly announced as he held up his now complete PLCE webbing. He slipped it on, fastening the belt, carefully adjusting the straps with Hermione's help.

"That's it," Hermione said, as she adjusted the yoke slightly, "perfect!" She stepped back, giving him a grin.

"Very nice, baby bro," a puzzled but amused voice said.

Ron turned to find the rest of the occupants of the room watching him with various levels of amusement and interest.

"What's this for?" Bill asked, nodding towards his little brother's outlandish get-up.

"Defence club," Ron and Hermione replied together.

Bill and Charlie looked at one another. "Well, that's new," Charlie said, as he grabbed anther corned beef and pickle sandwich. "So when did that start then?"

"Last year," Hermione said, her smile rather fanatical, "we're some of the founding members, in fact. It just started with five of us, but our numbers were getting closer to fifteen by the end of the year."

"All houses and all years represented," Ron added proudly.

"So, what sort of things do you do, then?" Bill asked with a puzzled frown, staring at their attire. "I'm taking it basic hexes and jinxes... the rules of formal duelling..."

Ron and Hermione looked at one another; what should they, could they, tell him? "Well," Ron said slowly, "year before last, we had this amazing DADA professor, even though he was actually covering for the original professor who disappeared in mysterious circumstances...erm...anyway, we learnt so much about protecting ourselves...what to do, what it takes, that, beginning of last year we decided to campaign for a defence club so we could practise what Professor Carrow taught us. It took a while, so at first it was just a small group of us meeting when we could to go running and do basic exercises and such...but now we're a proper club and everything!" He grinned proudly. "Do you think I should turn everything black?" he asked Hermione, looking at her black fatigues consideringly.

"Nah," Hermione said, "I'm only wearing black because of Professor Carrow. You'll be glad of the camo when we do Search and Destroy exercises."

"Oh, okay then," Ron nodded.

Bill and Charlie looked at one another questioningly.

"Search and destroy?" Charlie mouthed at his older brother.

Bill shrugged; he was none the wiser.

"They're a bunch of nutters," Fred shouted from the other side of the room.

"Too true, brother of mine," George added.

"Well, I think it's quite wonderful," Molly said, as she went past, "founding member of a Hogwarts club, my," she smiled at her youngest son proudly, smoothing his hair down and adjusting his collar.

"Muuuum," Ron whined, face bright pink with embarrassment.

Molly gave him a last loving pat on the shoulder, and continued through to the kitchen, intent on that last plate of sandwiches she'd made up, just in case.

"Of course," Bill said nonchalantly, "you might find yourselves rather distracted this year from...clubs and such." He smirked into his mug of tea, Charlie nodding in agreement, trying to hide his grin.

"Just tell us," George crowded his older brother, a sandwich in each hand threatening to get crumbs in Bill's long hair.

"Come on, the suspense is killing us," Fred added, as he sneaked up behind Charlie's chair with a glass of home-made lemonade, causing his older brother to leap up and back away from the menacing sticky liquid.

"Can't be that important," Ron said quietly to Hermione, "otherwise, Professor Carrow would have said something to you, right?"

"Or he believed it to be completely beneath his notice," Hermione replied with a wry smile.

"Boys!" Molly roared as she spotted the twins' antics. Fred and George sloped back to their corner, sending resentful looks over their shoulders.

Percy stumbled through the door at that moment in his smart interview robes, looking rather frazzled and stunned, an oddly shaped case clutched in one hand and a bulging folder tucked tightly under his arm. The collected Weasley family (and guests) turned to him expectantly.

"My third son, Percy," Ron could hear his dad explaining to the Grangers with pride, "just applied for a job at the Ministry." The Grangers offered their congratulations.

"Come on, Perce, don't leave us in suspense," Charlie called out, Ginny giggling at her brothers' antics from where she sat next to Bill on the sofa.

Percy drew himself up, brushing his robes smooth. "You are looking at the new secretary of the personal secretary of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic." He looked around the living room smugly.

"Well, that's umm...congratulations, Percy," Bill said, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. Ron just shook his head sadly, while the Twins stared at their older brother before dissolving into hysterical cackles, rolling on the floor clutching their stomachs.

"Oh really, Fred, George, behave yourselves," Molly admonished, as she strode round the sofa, intent on giving Percy the biggest hug of his life.

"He's going to be impossible for ages after this," Ron muttered in disgust to Hermione. She smirked back.

"Maybe... maybe not. What's in the case?" she asked innocently, pointing to the mysterious case by Percy's feet.

Percy's head jerked down, the colour draining from his face as his worry returned. "It's a...it's a manual...type...writer. I've got to learn how to type in a week. Audrey, the, err, typing pool manager, gave me an instruction manual and a, umm, tutorial, and a huge pile of paper...and I've started, but ...and I've got to learn to use a computer, and...and word...pro-cess-ing and _Lotus123_, after that. It's terrifying!" he whimpered. "I never knew the Ministry used so much muggle technology. Dad, do you use a com-puter at work?"

Arthur stared at his son, open mouthed. "Erm...no, not really, erm..." Dan Granger leaned over, muttering something, and understanding bloomed on Arthur's face. "No, just regular ink and parchment for us, my boy. I take it Allesandor likes his home comforts, then. So this type-wiper, what does it do precisely?"

"Dad," Percy said warningly, clutching the case protectively to his chest, "I've got to hand this back in a week, unharmed or altered in any way, shape or form; so _no_ fiddling with it!"

"Good luck with that," Ron muttered. Hermione sniggered into her sandwich.

OOOOOO

His heart soared as the hedges whipped past, the fresh air buffeting his face, the roar and vibration of the machine beneath him that responded to the slightest touch...utter bliss...he couldn't remember such happiness, such simple pleasure in years.

He roared round a corner, ignoring the startled yelps of some people out walking their dogs.

To be gifted such a machine! Timothy continued to surprise him at odd moments with the unlooked for kindness and generosity that he was capable of. It was rather disconcerting at times.

And then there was the _other_ issue...the living God-Emperor himself had ridden _his_ motorbike at some point! Timothy was being annoyingly elusive about it, something to do with tests was all he could ascertain...but the God-Emperor had used his bike, had sat on it, held the handlebars, ridden it. He knew it as surely as he breathed air, the psykic residue, so powerful, so pure, tingling on his skin. Did this make the motorbike a holy relic? Something to be revered, preserved in perfect condition, never to be touched? Except this was a gift, a birthday gift, not an anniversary he'd troubled himself with in a very long time, obviously meant to be used, considering some of Timothy's chatter at him, though he'd been too busy admiring his new steed to take much notice.

But no matter, the result was glorious. This wonderful machine, so clearly based on his beloved scout bike, though sleeker, less heavily armoured, and how it went! He dodged round an ugly boxy ground car, and darted across a junction, the bike's animal roar tearing through the air, only to get stuck behind one of those ponderous public transport vehicles...buses, that was what they were called...but it soon turned off into a newer road which led onto an estate of new houses barely ten years old, all virtually identical in their square configurations, with their brick paved drives and patches of lawn. He'd been through it once with Artemis for their morning run.

He opened up the throttle, the roar of the engine echoing off the steep verges as he sped down the lane.

The flashing of blue lights in the mirrors Timothy had insisted were a legal necessity became increasingly annoying, a white ground-car drifting into place behind him, a strip of flashing lights on its roof. The driver gestured for him to pull over, and so he did at the first possible opportunity, twisting round to eye the vehicle as it pulled to a stop behind him, the bonnet proudly proclaiming POLICE.

He frowned in puzzlement; what did the local Arbites want with him?

The two police officers exited their patrol car, strolling over with an air of enforced nonchalance. The one with thinning blonde hair inspected the back tyre for a moment, while his dark haired companion came closer, his demeanour relaxed but wary. Carrow watched the two men carefully. Why had they stopped him? He was an Inquisitor, beyond all but the judgement of the God-Emperor hims...

It hit him like a ton of bricks, there was no glorious galaxy spanning Imperium of Man, and the God-Emperor was a Professor of Physics working at CERN.

"Good afternoon, sir," the dark haired officer said, "I'm sure you're wondering why we stopped you today. Did you realise you were riding without a helmet?"

Carrow looked furtive. Timothy had _made_ him wear the sensible black helmet, but where was the fun in riding a bike with a helmet on blocking the rush of fresh air, that unpleasant deadening sensation around the ears? He'd stowed the blasted thing in the compartment provided in the bike at the first possible opportunity. Scowling, he pried the compartment open and dragged the hateful thing out, plonking it in his head, leaving the chin strap dangling.

"Thank you," the officer said with a tight smile, "you are required to wear your helmet at all times for your own personal safety. I'm sure you understand," he soldiered on, ignoring Carrow's puzzled scowl. "What do you think would happen if you crashed into a car?"

Carrow gave this question some thought; his steed would be fine, he was sure, for it was solidly built and had the blessing of the God-Emperor himself. As for what would happen to him...

"I'd bounce," he announced happily.

The dark-haired officer raised an eyebrow, exchanging a look with his colleague, who had developed a sudden cough. "May I see your driving licence sir?" he asked brusquely.

Carrow looked blankly from him to his colleague. Driving licence, what would he need a driving licence for?

"I'm taking it you have taken your test, particularly given the...uniqueness of your vehicle," the dark-haired officer said, a slight frown beginning to show.

A test? He'd not taken a test, not that he recalled. Timothy had given him a small book entitled _The Highway Code,_ and demanded he memorise it, insisting that these were the rules he needed to follow while driving anything on public roads (including tanks. He'd asked.) He'd done so, if only to keep his annoyingly persistent apprentice quiet. But test...no.

"How about insurance? Who are you insured with?" the dark-haired officer asked, looking increasingly grim.

Carrow scrunched his face up in puzzlement. "What is...insurance?" he asked.

The two police officers stared at him in disbelief, a small muscle beginning to twitch under the right eye of the dark-haired one.

"I think it might be a good idea if you accompanied us back to the police station, sir," the blonde officer said, his colleague apparently overcome by some...emotion.

Carrow sulked all the way to this...station, trapped behind the docile and well-behaved patrol car, the chin strap of the hateful helmet flapping in the breeze. It didn't matter that Timothy had had the Charnel Guards' skull and crossed bones stencilled on the front, he still hated it.

The station turned out to be a grim, squat, fairly modern building, maybe twenty years old, of pebble-dashed concrete and mean little windows, with a heavily secured yard to one side, the whole thing having an air of being built on the cheap. He parked beside the officers' ground car, finally able to take the blasted helmet off, taking in the general unlovely grimness of the place. Some things never seemed to change, no matter where or even, it seemed, when, you were in the galaxy. Local law enforcers seemed to favour ugly buildings. Hadn't they heard of intimidation through grandeur? He would have given such a place a grand entrance full of instructional statuary and embellishments with plenty of gilding to show the building was a place of authority and power; nothing like the tortures of the damned to get the masses looking to their own consciences.

"Sir, if you would follow us, please," the voice of the dark-haired officer came from behind him.

Carrow swung round, to find the two men staring up at him warily, the blonde one wide-eyed, his hand on his baton. His colleague, though, seemed to have nerves of steel, and stared up at him challengingly. Neither man seemed to want to have him behind them as they entered the station through an annoyingly small door, which he only just managed to shoulder his way through, into a rather anonymous corridor and reception area. If it wasn't for the lack of an Imperial cult shrine in a corner, and the signage being in the wrong language, he could have been back in the Imperium, with the slightly dingy pale green of the walls, the grey floor tiles and flickering fluorescent lighting. His hearts ached for his loss.

The dark-haired officer stopped at the reception point, and Carrow ducked so he could see through the sliding glass panel to the middle aged lady and her colleagues in the office beyond.

"Morning, Constable Baines," she trilled with a smile

"One to process, Enid," Constable Baines announced.

Carrow watched as Enid eyed him curiously over the top of her pink plastic framed glasses. "Can I have your name, sir?" she asked.

"Allesandor Darius Carrow," Carrow intoned, watching fascinated, as Enid began to input the information into her cogitator terminal.

"Is that..._Alex_ander...with an x?" she asked with a small frown.

oOo

Timothy brought the Hummer to a screeching halt in the Police car park. How the _hell_ had Carrow managed to get himself into trouble this time? It had been supposed to be a quiet Sunday afternoon ride on his new motorcycle. Mind you, ask a stupid question...

He stormed into the station, leather great-coat flaring around him. "Mr Carrow, where is he?" he snapped at the wide-eyed receptionist. Taking in the stunned silent stare he was receiving, he reined his temper in, locking it carefully behind his stony mask. "I'm Timothy Faulks, Mr Carrow's personal secretary. I received a phone-call, about...twenty minutes ago, informing me of Mr Carrow's presence here. I came as quickly as I could."

And he had too. He'd been having a friendly duel with Wulfric when the call had arrived, and as a result was only wearing a body-glove under his coat, which was most certainly not coming off.

A moment later, and a wary police officer, who kept giving him odd sideways looks, led him into an area of the station only the criminally inclined or the terminally unlucky would normally get to see. There, sat on a bench out of the way, was Carrow, watching the regular activities of the Police station with an expression of almost childish curiosity, while nibbling on...

Timothy scowled; what idiot had thought giving Carrow chocolate was a good idea? They'd even gone to the trouble of separating the kit-kat fingers for him, and given him a bottle of water to wash it down with.

"Getting arrested isn't generally considered a particularly effective method of acquiring free chocolate," Timothy snapped at the giant annoyance. "You have arrested him, haven't you?" he asked the nearest suspicious looking police officer.

"I, err..." the officer pulled himself together. "There's the matter of Mr Carrow's driving licence and insurance needing to be clarified. According to our records, Mr Carrow does appear to have a driving licence, but he has no recollection of ever having taken a test. As for the insurance..." He grimaced.

Timothy nodded in understanding, rubbing at his forehead in an attempt to relieve his slowly forming headache. "The paperwork for both is in a black folder in the storage compartment of the bike...as I told him."

One of the officers trotted off in order to retrieve the alleged folder.

"What is your...relationship with Mr Carrow?" his colleague asked, a peculiar expression in his face as he took in the other man's long leather coat, facial scars and heavy boots. Timothy eyed him a moment.

"Personal secretary, which translates to more of a minder-nanny sort of role."

"Ahh," the officer exclaimed, his smile becoming even more fixed.

Fortunately the other officer arrived back with the folder at that point, and they huddled round, rifling through the contents, checking and double checking that everything was in order.

"So when did Mr Carrow take his driving test?" the first officer asked again, Constable Baines, Timothy had heard him called.

"Oh, about...three weeks ago now," Timothy replied, as he double checked the insurance paperwork. He had got Carrow the right type hadn't he?

"No, I didn't," Carrow piped up helpfully.

Timothy turned to his wayward employer, trying not to show his annoyance. "Do you remember that last test where you drove on the road and followed instructions from the gentleman on the motorcycle in front of you?"

Carrow stared at him, frowning. "Yes," he finally admitted.

"Well, _that_ was your driving test," Timothy said absently, as he read some of the fine print of the insurance policy. Carrow stared at him, eyes widening slightly.

"You tricked me," he accused, voice showing a little pride and amusement.

"If I'd told you it was a driving test, you'd have refused to do it," Timothy said. "It was the simplest, most painless method for everyone."

"Well, that all seems to be in order," Constable Baines handed the folder back, "though it looks like you've got your work cut out for you."

"Tell me about it," Timothy muttered to him as he led them out of the building.

"What is insurance?" Carrow suddenly asked.

Timothy looked round to find Carrow standing far too close, licking the last of the chocolate from his fingers, gazing down at him with those intensely green eyes.

"Insurance? It's like a bet...that your home, or car or...motorbike won't come to harm between you and the insurance company. In the contract, you can specify what types of damage or accidents can be included or excluded..."

Carrow went quiet and thoughtful as they made their way towards the giant motorcycle that seemed the equal in size of any of the cars parked nearby. Timothy watched him warily.

"That's ridiculous!" Carrow burst out. "What's to stop people staging accidents or setting their homes on fire and then claiming the money...or over stating damage...deliberately making it worse. That's almost impossible to keep track of, if every ground-car," he gestured expansively around him, "has these...insurance policies."

"That," Timothy said patronisingly, "is insurance fraud and results in Constable Baines coming and arresting you."

Carrow looked thoughtfully at him. "What if," he said slowly, "you set someone up and make it look..."

"Stop digging the hole bigger," Timothy snapped, exasperated. Did the man have _no_ sense? "And talking of digging holes bigger, the archaeologists started digging test pits today. Except when they came back from lunch, Artemis had enlarged one, and left them a, err...little gift in the bottom."

OOOOOO

Lily sighed heavily to herself as the illumination of the...Chapel, they had decided it was, increased, revealing once again the unrelenting gothic finery of the space their portrait was held in, the depressing glorification of violence, the possible worship of death, and the very strange obsession with St George and the Dragon, though she honestly couldn't work out why he was wearing that funny armour.

She and James had lost track of the days, but they believed it had been some time since they had woken up, possibly months even. Months filled with strange and menacing figures, chanting five times a day, incense and candles, and every so often a special service as a new skull was interred in one of the decorative racks with much ceremony. Were these the honoured dead, their earthly remains being venerated? James didn't think so, his grasp of the wonky Latin being slightly better than her own. He seemed to think these were actually the spoils of war, victims of the war-mongering of the monstrous giant who always led these events. Lily hoped he was wrong.

In fact, James had became so disgusted with the behaviour of the cloaked giant and his minions, that he had started going to sleep as soon as the lights came on, leaving Lily on her own to face it all. Lily glared up at him and gave him a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow, but all she got was a grunt and a mutter as he settled closer to her. Huffing in annoyance, she watched the giant stalk up the Chapel and kneel before the main altar, before launching into his usual; a round of prayers to his "God-Emperor", prayers full of violence and hatred towards anything inhuman...anything _other_. It was all so depressing, a never-ending stream of cruelty, rage, and brutality. What sort of culture could possibly produce such a hideous mentality?

The giant ran through his worship, his prayer-beads running deftly through his fingers, the hideous gilded skeleton _things_ standing attendant, grasping various ritual objects, decorated skulls, incense censors, strings of finger bones, candles in decorative holders, devotional images. He rose slowly and bowed, before turning and making his way slowly towards her. Lily sighed heavily; and here came the part she utterly dreaded.

The giant came to a halt in front of her, face hidden in the shadows of his hood, prayer beads held by giant fingers. The prayers began anew, now directed at herself and James, and their multitudinous ancestors. Beside her, James began to tremble slightly as if suppressing laughter. _The enormous git,_ she fumed_, he's been pretending to be asleep all along!_ She gave him a hard jab in the stomach with her elbow, completely unsympathetic to his grunt of pain. At least he'd grown up enough to suppress the urge to actually make fun of their "biggest fan"; she had a feeling things would get very nasty if he did.

The prayers ran through their familiar formulae, the hideous skeleton things joining in at key moments, waving incense, and gesturing. It made no more sense to her now than the first time. Where were they? What was going on, and who was this man? Maybe she should just ask.

As the prayers wound down and the giant stepped forward to refresh the altar flowers, Lily seized her opportunity.

"Excuse me," she said. The giant continued with his task.

"Excuse me," she tried louder. "Excuse me!" The giant continued unheeding with his task. "Parlez-vous Francais?" she tried out of desperation; maybe he just didn't understand English.

The giant's fingers froze in their task, the hood turning to stare at her, growling something in a language she was completely unfamiliar with, couldn't place at all.

"Uhmm, do you speak English?" Lily asked rather desperately. The giant nodded slightly.

"Oh good," Lily sighed with relief. Beside her, James had completely given up pretending he was asleep, and was watching the conversation with some interest.

"Well...we just have a few questions for you, if you don't mind." Lily smiled at the hooded figure who was now giving her his undivided attention. "Where are we?" she asked, "and uhmm...what year is it? Has it been a long time since we, ah, passed away?"

The giant carefully considered her questions for a moment.

"This is the Lodge," the giant finally rumbled, "the Potter family home."

James stared at him open-mouthed. "I grew up at the Lodge and there was definitely nothing like _this_," he gestured, "when I was a kid, so try again."

The giant tilted his head slightly, contemplating them for a moment. "I had this place of worship built. The house was...sadly lacking a chapel." He began to turn.

"Please tell us the year," Lily called after him desperately.

The giant half-turned back to them. "994.M2. The month of...August in the local parlance, I believe."

Lily frowned in thought, ignoring James's mutinous mutterings. "Oh, I see," she said finally, "the 994th year of the second millennium...1994." She smiled at the giant, who gave her an approving nod.

"That means our little Bambi would be just starting his fourth year at Hogwarts. I bet he's so tall and handsome now. Would it be possible for us to see Harry?" she asked hopefully. "It's been so long since I've seen my baby. I just want to know he's alright, that he's okay..." She looked up at the giant pleadingly.

The giant seemed to hesitate.

"He is alright, isn't he?" Lily asked, beginning to feel alarmed. "We were very specific about who should raise Harry in the event of our deaths."

Lily began to shiver slightly as terrible possibilities crowded her mind. What if her darling little boy had been given to Petunia? James wrapped his arms around her, and she turned into the offered comfort, listening to his soothing murmurs as he rubbed her back gently.

The giant seemed to hesitate for a moment, apparently caught in indecisiveness. "I can assure you," he finally said, "that your son is in good health."

The giant reached up to his hood, and pulled it back, revealing a familiar face. James blanched in horror as he stared at the visage that so resembled his own, but on a truly heroic scale, marred by scars, so many scars...and those green eyes, such a vivid green that he'd only over seen on two other people before...but not like this, never like this...so cold and calculating, but oddly innocent in a childish sort of way...and underneath it all a seething ocean of tightly controlled rage.

James clung to Lily tighter, trying to edge his way between her and this madman, but Lily seemed frozen in shock, and wouldn't move.

"James Potter...Lily Potter," the giant intoned in his deep gravelly voice, "I am your son."

"No, no," James cried, denying it, even though things began to make a terrible sort of sense, clinging to Lily as if she were a life-line, even as she clung back. "_Noooo_!"


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note

A big thank-you for all your wonderful reviews, I always appreciate them and they always give me plenty to think about.

I'll apologise for the scene with the soldiers in, in advance. I used to work in a military surplus store, so I've met a fair few squaddies, and have a good idea of their equipment, and what sort of things they like to make their lives more comfortable (tiny little titanium stoves and sporks always went down well), but I'm not at all clued up about military organisation itself, or how the ranks think and feel about one another (though I can guess). If anyone sees any particularly embarrassing mistakes please feel free to point them out. I really appreciate it

Now on to Keele University. I actually went there for a summer school with the Open University nearly fifteen years ago. It was absolutely brilliant, I got to handle a piece of uranium during a lab session (so cool :-D ), and utterly crazy, I was woken up by drunken fifty something year-olds falling over into the bushes below my window at 2am most nights (so annoying). Anyway, the grounds of Keele University are really wooded and green with lots of open spaces and the various building spread over quite a wide area. My memory may be a little hazy but I remember the refectory building where I went to get breakfast all of that week as being an early 80's sort of thing, built of red brick with large tinted glass windows. I might be wrong, it was a while ago...

* * *

Chapter 3

Mrs Faulks tutted as Shaun began to fuss in his pushchair, bored and desperate to explore. Typically, Timothy was late, and the cup of coffee she'd ordered him was cooling on the table, untouched and forlorn.

"Where has he got to?" Sandra snapped, as she pushed Shaun's pushchair back and forth in an attempt to sooth him.

"Well, he said he'd be here," Mrs Faulks said distractedly, as she eyed the passing crowds of shoppers. Even though it was mid-week, harried families swarmed past, laden down with shopping, as they frantically bought last minute supplies for their off-springs' return to school. Any sign of her wayward younger son, not a one; oh, how she wished he would get another job. She had watched him turn from a happy confident boy, into an increasingly bitter man, into this...gaunt, haunted shadow of himself.

Oh dear, there he was, slowly making his way along, fingers trailing along the balustrade, absently gazing down into the densely planted winter garden below, his posture rigid and upright, one of those black and gold cigarettes drooping from his mouth, and- oh, good grief, what _did_ he think he looked like?

She'd seen him before in that ridiculous get-up, the slim trousers with the satin ribbon down the outer leg seam, the little braid encrusted jacket that was so close fitting it was a wonder he could move his arms, and that blasted sash. She couldn't say what particularly annoyed her about the blue and bronze sash, but she could quite cheerfully set it on fire. In some strange fit he'd obviously attempted to "dress down" his outrageous ensemble, and had left the neck open, revealing the white of his shirt and a "v" of pale, wiry, and to her horror, scarred chest...

With his shaggy, roughly slicked back hair and sideburns, it only succeeded in making him look even more disreputable and dodgy; the nearby shoppers parted warily around him like a herd of wildebeest near a pack of lions, Timothy being completely oblivious to them all.

"My god," Sandra muttered, "he looks like a reject from a Napoleonic re-enactment group."

"You mean, because he was trying too hard," Mrs Faulks added with a small smile.

Shaun picked that moment to clamber from his pushchair and charge off, squealing at the top of his voice, "Unca, unca!"

"When did he manage that?" Sandra asked in shock, as she leapt to her feet and made after her wayward offspring. Mrs Faulks shook her head in exasperation, watching as Timothy scooped his nephew up and settled him on his hip. Predictably, the little lad attempted to stick his fingers in his uncle's mouth, having developed an unhealthy obsession with Timothy's gold teeth shortly after he became aware of them. It had certainly enlivened Shaun's first visit to the dentist, where he had demanded, with his severely limited vocabulary, "shiny tooth wiv pic'urs."

Sandra had not been impressed.

"I thought we were having sandwiches for lunch, not fingers," Mrs Faulks distinctly heard Timothy tell a giggling Shaun as he made his way over, Sandra watching him with a scowl.

"I, err...sorry I'm late," Timothy said as he hitched Shaun more comfortably on his hip. "The new archivists arrived this morning, and it took longer than I had anticipated, showing them around, and answering questions."

"Archivists?" Sandra asked, as they settled round the table again, Timothy attempting to keep the wriggling toddler on his lap but failing miserably.

"Yes," he said distractedly as he finally gave in and let Shaun slip to the floor, "to put Mr Carrow's family records in order. I've tried to make some sort of start on it, but there's hundreds of years worth and it's completely beyond my capabilities what with everything..." He trailed off, grimacing slightly at the luke-warm coffee. "So how have you all been?"

The conversation drifted into normal everyday topics, much to Mrs Faulks relief, as Sandra happily launched into a retelling of her little darling's newest achievements, as the small boy in question picked his toys out from the pushchair and hid them under the table.

The day continued more or less as she'd planned, as she and Sandra wandered from shop to shop in search of the perfect dresses to wear to her niece's wedding next summer, Timothy trailing after them. If they didn't start planning their outfits now, it would only turn into a mad dash the week before with no guarantee that something suitable would be available. Sandra had the sense to listen, but Timothy on the other hand...

"Mum, I already have a suit that will do, honestly," he said as he cuddled Shaun standing in the middle of the men's outfitters she finally managed to drag him into. "It's grey, and it's really boring, and I really like it."

And so despite her careful arguments and dire warnings of his tie potentially clashing with the bridesmaids dresses, he stubbornly refused to listen, instead keeping a wary watch, twitching whenever one of the strangely numerous security guards came too close, almost clinging to Shaun as if he were a life-line, particularly after she confiscated his cigarettes since he was chain smoking. What a terrible example for such an impressionable child.

Fortunately, Shaun didn't seem to mind and appeared to be enjoying the excellent view his uncle's extra height afforded him.

Needing watering after their marathon clothes-shop crawl, they stopped at another coffee shop, Shaun now safely ensconced in his pushchair fast asleep.

Timothy, suddenly remembering something, reached into an inside pocket, pulled out a bulging envelope (Mrs Faulks suspected magical involvement), and handed it to a puzzled Sandra.

"Mattie gave this to me, to give to you," he explained and Sandra gleefully tore it open, pulling out her prize, an origami turtle for Shaun falling out on to the table.

_Ah, thoughtful_, Mrs Faulks smiled at her youngest son happily, as Sandra devoured her unusually long letter. It was so difficult for military wives when they could go months without seeing their other halves, left to run the household and look after the children virtually on their own, with that persistent worry at the back of their minds, _would he come back alive this time_. And especially now that Mattie was in a war-zone that was proving to be particularly vicious, and- _hang on_..."Timothy,_ when_ did Mattie give you that letter?" she asked, her heart freezing in her chest.

Timothy stared back wide-eyed. "Erm...about three weeks, I think...erm...this was the first opportunity I had to hand it over..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Timothy, Matthew is out in Yugosla..." Mrs Faulks snapped angrily, before a horrible suspicion occurred to her. "Were you out there too? What were you doing? Why would you need to go there?"

Timothy hunched defensively in his chair, arms crossed. "I was just doing Mattie a good turn, because I caused him a bit of bother..."

Mrs Faulks stared angrily at her errant younger son. "This is Mr Carrow, isn't it? He's a bad influence!"

Timothy didn't need to say anything, she just knew, as he slumped down further in his chair that she'd hit the nail on the head.

"Can I have my cigarettes back now?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"No, you may not!" Mrs Faulks gave him a disapproving glare.

"Muuum!" he whined.

OOOOOO

Sirius whooped with delight; this latest addition to the partially restored and refurbished Grimmauld Place had only been installed in the rejuvenated living room this morning, but already it was proving- he yelled joyfully- everything he'd hoped, and more.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Remus exclaimed from the doorway, clearly exasperated, as Sirius finally tumbled to the floor, laughing. "Why did you feel the need to have this...this.._bucking bronco_ of all things installed in the living room? It's utterly ridiculous!"

Sirius sprawled on the floor, his robes spread around him, still laughing. "Ah, don't be like that, Moony, it's just a bit of fun," he whined, "just have a go."

"Absolutely not!" Remus backed away glaring, knowing what would happen next if he wasn't careful.

"Aww, come on, Moony!" Sirius bounced up, stalking towards his best friend in the world, with an evil grin. "You're far too up-tight, you know, you need to lighten up a little, have more fuuunn..."

The soft ding-dong of the front doorbell sounded, followed predictably by awful screeches. "SLUR ON THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK, SCUM..."

Sirius groaned. "Of all the timing..." He threw his hands up, as he stormed out of the room and down the hall. "This had better not be Allesandor, I don't think I can cope with him this early in the morning."

"TRAITOR SON OF MINE, HOW DARE YOU CHANGE THE WALLPAPER..."

"Oh shut up, you old cow!" Sirius screamed back, as he wrenched the heavy curtains back over the hated portrait of his late and unlamented mother. It had been the only solution that they'd managed to come up with so far, thanks to the permanent sticking charm his mother had used, short of removing the entire wall. Personally, he wanted to use fiendfyre on the wretched thing; only Remus' threat to permanently change him into a poodle, a _female_ poodle, had deterred him so far.

"Headmaster! It's good to see you, please come in." Remus' voice drifted over from the front door and Sirius relaxed with a sigh; brilliant, not Allesandor, his psycho god-son then. He could cope with Dumbledore; the old man might even like some of the more...novel additions he'd made to the old family home.

"Sirius, my boy," Dumbledore greeted him warmly as he strolled into the hall, gazing around in appreciation. "I see your efforts with the refurbishments are paying off handsomely. It looks wonderful." He smiled at Sirius, his blue eyes merry.

Sirius beamed happily as he admired his handiwork in the hall. Gone was the dingy wood, shabby dirty wallpaper and dubious collection of dark objects. The walls of the hall were now covered with a violently floral, cream and gold wallpaper, white ceiling and cornice with a little tasteful gilding on the mouldings, the woodwork and floor stripped of their ancient varnish and polished to a warm honey coloured tone. He'd had difficulties deciding on carpet runners, in the end resorting to buying all the designs he like in red; mismatched, yes, but it worked. The little furniture visible was all mahogany, and then he'd finished it all off with the brightest, most sparkly chandeliers he could find. Grimmauld Place was slowly becoming a place he could genuinely call home.

"We've just finished in the living room, just had the last touches installed this morning," Sirius grinned. Now, what were the odds he could get Dumbledore to have a go. He summoned the new house-elf. "Pippy! Tea and nibbles for three, if you would." The eager house-elf popped away with an excited squeak, delighted to be catering for guests.

Sirius's grin only broadened as Dumbledore walked into the living room and came to a halt exclaiming "Oh my," as he gazed around wide-eyed. "How wonderful!"

"Yeah, Timmo...my god-son's secretary gave me some muggle magazines devoted to err...interior design. Gave me loads of brilliant ideas," Sirius said as he examined his efforts with a critical eye. The once dark and oppressive space full of unpleasant memories had been transformed with plain cream walls, more stripped wood, lime-washed furniture upholstered in ox-blood red velvet, pale marble, and the lightest of taffeta drapes at the windows. He'd then added what Timmo insisted on calling a conservatory at the back which led directly into the garden, and in the middle, in pride of place, sat the bucking bronco surrounded by discrete cushioning charms. It was all the things he craved for, light, warmth, fresh air, open space, fun. He'd spent so long locked away in the cold and dark that, now he'd got used to being free, even cupboards were starting to make him feel panicky.

"Did you have help with the plants?" Dumbledore asked, as he gazed through the open doors of the conservatory into the lush greenery of the garden beyond.

"Oh yeah," Sirius smiled ruefully, "bit of a black thumb me. Do you remember Bunty Glossop?"

"Hufflepuff? Friend of Alice's?" Dumbledore asked. "Yes, lovely young lady, very hardworking, highest Herbology NEWT in fifty years, if I remember rightly."

Sirius nodded. "Yeah, I've hired her to look after the garden for me. She's done amazing things, and in only two months as well. The first week poor Bunty had to wear dragon-hide armour, some of the plants were _that_ out of control."

Dumbledore murmured appreciatively, raising an amused eyebrow as he took in the large muggle print in a gilt frame of a group of dogs playing cards that had pride of place above the fireplace.

A horrific monstrosity of a creature, all golden filigree and old yellowed bones covered in runes stalked into the living room, incongruously wearing a frilly pink apron, carrying a loaded tea tray, and herded by a shrill Pippy. The men watched in uncomfortable silence as the...thing put the tray down, stared at them a moment with empty eye sockets lit by a unearthly glow, before stalking away followed by Pippy squeakily barking orders at it.

"Ah, yes," Sirius shifted uncomfortably, "little gift from my god-son when he discovered I was living without at least half-a-dozen servants. Apparently such a thing is beneath someone of my status...scone, anyone?"

"Well, I suppose I should tell you why I'm visiting," Dumbledore sighed as he settled himself more comfortably on the sofa with a cup of tea and a fruit scone. "Have you considered taking up your family seat on the Wizengamot?" he asked.

Sirius coughed as he choked on a crumb of scone. "What?" he wheezed, as he gulped down some tea. "You're serious, aren't you? Why? Wait a moment, don't answer that," Sirius held up a hand as Dumbledore opened his mouth, "this is my bloody god-son, isn't it? You only have to meet him for five minutes to realise he's a manipulative murderous little...great big..." He waved a hand expressively, searching desperately for the right words to adequately express his feelings.

"Quite," Dumbledore interrupted before Sirius could get descriptive, "and now he occupies one of the most powerful positions in the Ministry, and Minister Fudge is so obviously...only still where he is, because dear Allesandor currently finds him useful," Dumbledore sighed heavily, "and I still suspect under-hand means. Madam Umbridge's death was just too...convenient..."

The room descended into silence, the twittering of birds drifting in from the garden outside.

"What does it take," Dumbledore suddenly burst out, "to persuade a fully grown man that assassination isn't a canny political manoeuvre, that actually most people see it as rather anti-social!" He shook his head. "Allesandor is just so...frustrating. He'll be belligerent, aggressive and violent, bull-headed to an extreme...but then he'll do something that reminds me so much of the boy that I knew for that one year that..." He gave the two silent men a sad smile. "Enough of my troubles."

"He's running amok, isn't he?" Sirius asked as he put his tea-cup down with a tiny clatter. "You were wondering if I might be a...good influence on Allesandor..."

"A little more than that," Dumbledore replied, leaning back. "I'm trying to put together a group of people who are independent minded enough to stand up to our dear Senior Under-secretary, not out-right opposition per say. I doubt he'd tolerate that. No, it's more a group who will weed out some of his more outrageous ideas."

Sirius and Remus nodded slowly, their expressions worried. "Like his suggestion...demand," Remus said carefully, "of a mandatory military service for all young magical males. I couldn't believe it when I saw _that_ in the paper."

"But it didn't get through," Sirius said, quickly looking between the two men.

"No, it didn't, I managed to drum up enough support to shoot that one down," Dumbledore said tiredly. "It took a surprising amount of effort."

Sirius considered things a moment, an uncharacteristically serious frown on his face. "So who have you got so far?" he asked.

"Well," Dumbledore said with a small smile beginning to show, "a number of the old crowd you're sure to know, Elphius Dodge of course...Ptolemy Chant and his brother-in-law Cuthbert, Madam Bagshot, Madam Longbottom and err...Madam Malfoy...so far."

"That's a mixed bag," Remus commented with a raised eyebrow, "Dodge, dyed in the wool Liberal, Ptolemy Chant..."

"We went to school together," Dumbledore explained with a small shrug.

"...traditionalist," Remus continued, "on the dark side but stayed neutral in the War, Cuthbert Montague, also stayed out of the war, but more because, as far as I can tell, he regarded Voldemort and his followers as not being dark enough...and then Madam Bagshot, traditionalist, but light leaning..."

"Narcissa Malfoy," Sirius interrupted, "cousin Cissy has sided with you...and Madam Longbottom...the two of them in a room _together_?" Sirius stared in disbelief. "Things are desperate then... but what about Amelia Bones? I would have thought she would be a..." He trailed off, as Dumbledore shook his head.

"Madam Bones is very firmly on Allesandor's side, I'm afraid. He's done wonders to improve the reputation and credibility of the DMLE internationally, as well as having drastically increased their budget, and forcefully implementing anti-corruption measures Madam Bones devised herself."

Sirius stared. "So what about outside the Wizengamot, the wider Ministry, people like...Arthur Weasley?" he suggested tentatively.

Dumbledore winced slightly. "Allesandor saved the Weasley's youngest and only daughter from a fate worse than death. I can't ask them to stand against him when they feel they owe him a life-debt. Their third son Percy also now works for Carrow as a secretary."

"Mad-eye Moody?" Sirius suggested.

"Alastor..." Dumbledore stroked a hand down his beard in exasperation, "you know how Alastor has always put forward proposals to improve the Auror training program?"

Sirius nodded; some of them had been truly terrifying.

"Allesandor went and...implemented his latest plan with a few additions of his own. The drop-out rate has increased significantly, but I understand the recruits that are coming through are of a very high calibre indeed. And as a result, Alastor won't hear a thing against the man. In fact, he's not really speaking to me at the moment..." he trailed off sadly "...though he did agree to teach Defence, just for this coming school year, so maybe we can reconcile our differences..."

"He's gutted the Wizengamot, hasn't he?" Remus asked, horrified.

"Not that it took much effort on his part, considering the War," Dumbledore said, looking as serious as ever they'd seen him. "From the little Allesandor has told me of his adult life, and some educated reading between the lines of course, he's been trained to infiltrate and subsume governments and the like, but it doesn't appear to be his main area..."

"All right, all right," Sirius held up his hands, "you want help against the unstoppable force of...pig-headedness, I understand, and I will help you...someone has to stand up to him..." His eyes roved around the room until they alighted on something. "If you'll have a go on my new toy," he grinned evilly at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore turned and eyed the object that dominated the centre of the room. "The bucking bronco? It's been _years_ since I've had the opportunity to ride one! May I?" he asked Sirius with a beaming smile.

"Be my guest," Sirius gestured, trying to hide his surprise. Where had his old headmaster come across something like this? His eyes widened as the bronco began to dive and spin and buck, the Headmaster gamely clinging on with one hand, whooping with delight, while waving his pointed hat above his head with the other, for what seemed like an age. Bringing the contraption to a halt, Dumbledore elegantly slipped from its back. "Wonderful, wonderful, do you think Minerva would object if I acquired one for the office?"

"I, erm...well..." Sirius seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I shall consider the matter," Dumbledore smiled brightly at him. "Our next meeting will be a fortnight on Thursday at Hogwarts. We're currently using one of the guest rooms for want of a better place. I'll owl you the details closer to time. Well, I must be off. Thank-you very much for the tea and scones, it's been delightful."

Sirius watched him leave with a look of stunned awe.

"Sticking charm," Dumbledore whispered to Remus with a wink as he walked past. Remus hurriedly hid his laugh with a cough.

OOOOOO

Gulping nervously, Barty Crouch approached the doors to the Great Hall, the sound of the chattering students muffled by their thickness. No, he couldn't afford to show such an emotion, not when so much rested on this desperate, crazy plan he'd concocted to...please...appease the shadow of his once great master.

They'd stayed awhile in a decrepit old house, dusty and barely maintained, on the outskirts of Little Hangleton, the plan being that the Dark Lord would stay there while he infiltrated Hogwarts disguised as- they still had to clarify that part- under cover of the Tri-Wizard tournament that was all over the Daily Prophet (_Diplomatic Triumph for Minister Fudge, _his leg_),_ to gain a very special and heavily protected victim for the Ritual of Resurrection that the Dark Lord wished to undertake; the Boy-who-lived himself...

But there was a large problem his Master seemed to be blind to; he wouldn't be able to see to his Master's needs on a daily basis, not if he was disguised as a professor, and certainly not as a student. And they still hadn't agreed on a suitable person for him to switch with. Somehow he doubted he'd be able to over-power Dumbledore that easily, no matter the Dark Lord's opinions (and rants) on the subject. There was no way around it, the Dark Lord needed to go with him. How? Well, he'd figure that out when he got to it.

While lurking in Diagon Alley during the school rush, and glamoured to the eyeballs, he had made a fortuitous discovery. Hiding in the Household Charms section of Flourish and Blotts, he had overheard two obvious students...

"_...even more boring than last year," the thin mousy-haired lad said._

"_Yeah, but that's History for you, can't expect anything more than that. Might as well use it as extra study time," the obvious Ravenclaw said, adjusting his neat rectangular glasses. His friend sighed heavily. "I loved History before Binns," he said mournfully._

"_So? Cast a silencing charm, or use ear-plugs, and read round the subject," his friend said, completely unsympathetic, "what do you think about the Defence text? Have you had a look yet?"_

"_Yeah," the mousey-haired lad said hefting a leather-bound tome, "it looks pretty interesting. I'm quietly optimistic, though a few of the later chapters remind me of Professor Carrow. Dad said something about maybe it was old Mad-Eye Moody. Apparently, he's taking a year off from his consultancy work at the DMLE."_

"_Hmm, Mad-Eye Moody," the Ravenclaw scowled, "just hope he's not as crazy as..."_

_Barty moved further away along the aisle and picked a random book from the shelf, flicking idly through it in an attempt to look less suspicious. Mad-Eye Moody, eh...he had a bone to pick with old Mad-Eye..._

_A meaningful cough sounded beside him, and he turned to find one of the sales staff standing there, looking at him and the book with a raised eyebrow._

_He looked down at the page. "...healing properties of your menstrual blood. Save this precious outpouring in a crystal vial, and use throughout the coming month as..."_

_He flushed scarlet, juggling the book frantically as he stuffed it back on the shelf, the silver lettering of the title "Mystical Moon-time" glinting maliciously at him from its deep blue silk binding. He stalked away, gathering the tattered remains of his dignity about him as best he could..._

And so a crazy and desperate plan was hatched. He would take the place of Mad-Eye and go to Hogwarts, where he would be ideally placed to kidnap Harry Potter during the chaos surrounding the Tri-Wizard tournament.

_...crouching outside Moody's wards just behind a particularly scratchy hedge, Barty had begun to have second thoughts, but he quickly brushed them aside. What alternative did he have? _

_He cast a bludgeoning curse into the old man's dustbins; if he could lure the old bastard outside... _

_The night lit up as a hail of spell fire spewed forth from the house. Barty threw himself to the ground, quietly cursing paranoid old bastards who hexed first and didn't even ask any questions. So much for luring him outside._

_The darkness of the night returned, still and thick as Barty peeled himself cautiously off the ground, brushing the odd dry leaf off. Now what was he going to do?_

_A door creaked opened, followed by a muttering growl and the uneven stomping of Mad-Eye Moody as he approached. "Bloody cats," Barty distinctly heard him growl. Quick as he could, not believing his luck, he jabbed his wand at the old auror, sending a silent stunner his way. The old man crumpled to the ground, leaving a stunned Barty standing there. It was that easy? No, it couldn't be, there had to be some sort of catch. Shaking himself, he leapt into action, stunning Moody again as a safety precaution, and quickly levitating him into the house. Ten minutes later he had polyjuiced himself, stripped the old man of his clothing and physical aids for his personal benefit, and even found a convenient place to store him for easy access; ah, the joys of fancy-dancy multi-compartment trunks. In fact now he came to think about it, he could bring his master with him like this, he grinned to himself, Moody's scarred and craggy visage turning his expression into something truly terrible. This could actually work..._

...yet now he was having second thoughts. He pushed the doors open with a dramatic gesture, the resulting boom echoing around the Great Hall. All eyes turned to him, students and teachers alike, a surprising number of them reaching for their wands and pointing them in his direction. What were they expecting, a Death Eater? Barty sniggered internally at his little joke as he stomped his way up the hall, the students watching him cautiously with narrowed eyes. Was it him, or was there something off with their reaction?

And now the hard part. Dumbledore came round the High Table approaching, shaking his hand, murmuring polite enquires as to his health. Heart thumping in his ears Barty wasn't sure what he said in return, something about "bloody cats" but the old man seemed to accept it, and led him to a chair. Cold sweat trickled down his back as Barty glared out at the students, as they gave him a lukewarm round of applause. It was going to be a miracle if he survived this.

He carefully selected a piece of sausage as the feast got underway; there was no way he could face anything more at the moment, not without being sick. Cautiously, he sniffed the thing, surreptitiously casting a few of his repertoire of revealing charms. Best to be on the safe side, particularly since... he glanced down the table, and Snape glared back. He sneered at the traitorous Potions Master. Snape jerked his head back to his plate, poking at his meal viciously.

Barty pulled the hip-flask out, taking a carefully mouthful of the polyjuice potion within, shuddering he went back to his food, the foul aftertaste doing nothing for his appetite. Now where was the Potter brat?

The Gryffindors, rowdy as ever with a "how long can you balance a pastie on your nose" competition going on at the far end, familiar flashes of red hair that must be the multitudinous Weasley offspring, the Longbottom lad, his eye widening in surprise as suddenly a juvenile grizzly bear sat in his place, cries of "Neville!" drifting over, a few other vaguely familiar faces, but no miniature of James bloody Potter. Strange; he frowned, he could have sworn...

He turned his attention to the Hufflepuffs. Maybe loyalty trumped bravery, for surely the Potter brat took after his parents' personalities as well as appearance, and whatever else was said about James and Lily, they were just as loyal as they were brave. Merlin, the Bones chit looked like her dad, and who was that with her...no, he didn't recognise the blonde lass at all, though one day she may very well be a looker. Lots of...well, it was all very _Hufflepuff_ and no familiar Potter mess of black hair at all.

Maybe the boy took more after his mother; she'd been incredibly talented, top of her class, bright, intelligent, inquisitive, creative; such a loss, despite her blood status. He looked over the Ravenclaw table as they gathered in groups for quiet but fierce discussion, or ate absentmindedly while reading books. There were a number of students with dark hair, but no Potter...

Surely not...no, he couldn't have, could he? He dragged his eyes over to the Slytherin table. So many students there looked so achingly familiar- Millicent Bulstrode, looking so like her mother, but with her father's build, poor child. Maybe she would grow into it...Gregory Goyle looking serious and thoughtful-and _reading a book!?_ He definitely didn't take after _his_ father, no matter how much he looked like him. The _lack_ of familiar faces was also startling. Where was the Malfoy heir? Surely Lucius would have sent his son to Hogwarts? But still no Potter, so where was he?

Had Dumbledore and the Ministry hidden him away somewhere for safety? What was going on? He glanced at the Headmaster beside him, deep in discussion with Professor McGonagall, something about a meeting...possibly political. Moody was bound to get invited, after all everyone knew the two were close friends and allies.

So where was Potter? If he couldn't get accesses to him, then all this plotting, planning, and destroying his taste-buds was all for nothing. He growled to himself, carefully eyeing the tiny Charms Professor who sat on his other side. The man was so deep in conversation with Argus Filch of people, talking about...magical theory...and colour change charms. To his eternal surprise, Filch pulled out a wand, and began to attempt the third year level charm under Flitwick's enthusiastic supervision. Wasn't Filch a squib? What in Merlin's name was going on?

"The start of a new year, all these fresh new faces; I always look forward to this time of year," the Charms Professor's squeaky voice said next to him.

Barty nodded, grunting. Best not to say too much or he'd give himself away, but on the other hand... "Missing faces," he grunted to the little man, "no Malfoy," he scowled.

"Ah yes," Flitwick winced a little, "yes, well, the young Malfoy heir was a student here two years ago but Madam Malfoy transferred him to Beauxbatons after the untimely death of his father...at such a young age too, tragic..." he trailed off with a sad smile. "Of course, there are all sorts of rumours doing the rounds that the late Mr Malfoy's demise was, err, assisted..."

The cold sweat froze on his back, as Barty's mind whirled in alarm and confusion. Lucius Malfoy...dead...murdered. Fortunately, Flitwick had been distracted by a question from Filch. What else had he missed during his imprisonment by his father, _vital _potentiallyplan-changing information...

Time to break out the veritaserum, and question that old bastard Moody properly...

Something small and hard struck him on the head. Barty picked it up and carefully examined it...a little rubber duck, black with glowing red eyes...student prank all ready? He glared out over the tables as more of the odd muggle objects came raining down turning into a veritable downpour, the students casting shielding charms or holding books over their heads or even digging out umbrellas, not seeming at all fazed by this curious event. Was this a regular occurrence? What the _hell_ was going on?

oOo

Snape stared down the table to the grizzled veteran auror. If he was right, that odour was...hmmm...leeches, stewed...and the tang of fluxweed, and boomslang skin...his eyes widened in realisation. Polyjuice potion. He couldn't be completely certain, he'd need to double check, but was the Auror actually who he seemed...and who should he inform of his misgivings?

He eyed the Headmaster a moment, who was busily organising his anti-Carrow party with Minerva. Then a thought struck him, a wonderful idea guaranteed to annoy the maximum number of people. He grinned into his coffee-disguised-as-pumpkin-juice. Yes, Carrow would appreciate knowing about this development at Hogwarts...

oOo

Barty frantically scrabbled through his potions cabinet...where was it...where was it...bruise balm...blood replenishers...hair hirsute...here it was, typically hiding at the back. He dashed over to the trunk as fast as the wooden leg allowed and lowered himself down, the Dark Lord watching him beadily from behind the day's issue of the Daily Prophet, the effect spoilt somewhat by the sturdy pine high-chair, the evil box by its side.

Moody lay comatose on a pile of blankets in the corner, shivering slightly. Barty smirked slightly; it was nice seeing the old bastard suffer for a change, though if he continued like this...Barty crouched down painfully, cursing the stupid wooden limb as it stuck out at an absurd angle...the old man's skin was cold and clammy, blast it. Moody wasn't as young as he was...if his health failed and he suddenly died, well he'd be up in the air without a broom as the saying went. People weren't meant to be made to lie still for weeks at a time, but what else could he do? Maybe he should make him walk around a bit, lend him the leg or something.

But on to more pressing problems.

He carefully placed three drops of the veritaserum on Moody's tongue and commanded him to swallow, watching as his eyes glazed even further.

"What is your name?" he snapped at the old man.

"Alastor Moody," Moody croaked, obviously trying to fight the effects of the potion, his face pale and sweaty, the scars that ravaged it standing out starkly.

Barty gave a small sigh of relief, it was working.

"How did Lucius Malfoy die?" he asked. Behind him there was a rustle as the Dark Lord stopped his pretence of reading the paper, giving the pair his full attention.

Moody grinned horribly, revealing crooked teeth. "He had a stroke in the night...two years ago...couldn't have happened to a...better person," he cackled.

"Was the death suspicious?" Barty asked, desperate to confirm Professor Fliwick's suspicions.

Moody broke into a mad cackle. "Oh yes," he grinned broadly at his captor. Barty sneered back in loathing, a sour feeling settling in his stomach.

"Who do you suspect of causing Lucius Malfoy's...death?" he ground out.

The old man smirked up at him, "Allesandor Darius Carrow...but there's no proof...just circumstance...and what...came...later," he forced out, fighting the veritaserum.

"What?" a furious voice hissed being him, Barty turned to find the Dark Lord furiously leaning over the tray of the high chair. "What?" he screamed, "who is this? Who dared destroy one of my faithful?"

"Your worst nightmare," Moody laughed hoarsely.

Barty hurriedly took control again, before things could get nasty. "The Crabbe boy isn't at Hogwarts. Why?"

"He died in a suicide pact with his mother," Moody stated, his expression flat. "They wanted to avoid the shame Augustus had brought on the family."

Barty swallowed nervously, cold sweat trickling down his spine. He ploughed on with the questions, asking after those he'd know closely, then the names of those he had met only occasionally, his Master sounding more and more like an angry kettle in the background, trying to acquire as much information as he could before the potion wore off, Moody's laughter becoming ever nastier.

With a flick of his wand, he hit the old Auror with a stunning spell, just as the shredded and mangled remains of the Daily Prophet flew past his head, hitting the wall opposite.

"Everyone, everything," the Dark Lord screamed, "all removed, all destroyed," he breathed heavily red eyes blazing evilly. "Everything I've built up over _decades_," he hissed, "destroyed in less than _two years_ by one man. I will admit I murdered a hell of a lot of people to get to where I did. And I was hounded by the Aurors for it, their most _wanted_!" he screamed, "this..._this_ _man..._has also murdered scores of people, we can all read between the lines. And what do they do? _Make him Senior Under-Secretary_!" He panted with rage. "How? _Why_? Has Magical Britain lost what little sense it had left?"

Barty swallowed nervously, feeling as if the world had been kicked out from under him. "My Lord...ermm...he is suspected of having something to do with the previous incumbent's untimely demise."

He sat shivering on the floor; this was a disaster of epic proportions. Moody and Dumbledore had had a falling out over politics within the DMLE, and he didn't feel confident enough with his charade to attempt to patch it up. The risk of discovery was too high. Someone had "broken into" Azkaban and executed every single last Death Eater incarcerated within. The Lestranges were all gone...the thought of Bella dead and forgotten in some rancid cell...he wiped a tear away. The rest of the Death Eaters were either very publicly dead, suspected dead, or hadn't been heard from or seen in public for well over a year. Their contacts within the Ministry as well as the criminal under-world were in disarray, and then worst of all, the Boy-who-lived was somewhere so safe even Moody didn't know of its location...and all of this mess pointed back, in one way or another to this shadowy figure...Allesandor Darius Carrow...

He ran a shaking hand over his face wincing at the unfamiliarity of the mangled nose. Where in Merlin's name did they go from here? The nasty pins-and-needles in his fingers wrenched his mind away from its miserable path. Oh drat, the polyjuice potion! Frantically, he grabbed for the hip-flask and took a large swig.

"Idiot," a sibilant mutter came from behind him. Barty turned to find his master hunched down in his robes, hood pulled up around his face, red eyes gleaming malevolently. "If we can't have Harry Potter, then this..._Carrow_ individual will do. He appears to have taken apart my followers and my associates, and their resources. It's only a matter of time before he is declared a Dark Lord himself. I cannot, _will not _abide a rival." The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes in anger. "If this doesn't qualify him as my mortal enemy, then nothing will. Well, don't just sit there, find him and use him for the plan instead."

Barty nodded quickly; oh hell, more research.

OOOOOO

The morning was grey and dull, the Breakfast Room lit by a watery light that promised nothing but miserable drizzle, glancing off the angular Italian glassware and making the bright and cheerful wall paintings look almost garish in its cold blue light. The brisk wind blew the first few fallen leaves around the courtyard garden with its formal parterre, and really, it fit his mood perfectly.

Timothy eyed the envelope warily; most of Carrow's mail went directly to the Ministry (via owl), or to his office at Aquila Industries (via Royal Mail). Very rarely did he receive personal letters...but this was something very specific. He stared at the logo on the envelope; Keele University...oh dear...

He sighed heavily, and it had all been done with the best of intentions...

_...Carrow had been persuaded, eventually, that he couldn't take Artemis with him on the week long residential school of his Open University course. And so they had spent the best part of a week looking after a bewildered and upset tiger. They had worked hard at keeping her distracted and entertained, taking her for twice daily runs, throwing tyres for her to maul, taking her with them wherever they went...the Ministry...Aquila Industries...by the last day of Carrow's summer school they were all exhausted, and Timothy was at the end of his tether. So in an act of utter stupidity, he loaded the pining feline into the back of the Hummer and drove up to the University to meet the giant lump._

_Artemis had been as good as gold, strolling at his side as they walked through the lush wooded grounds of the University to their meeting place with Carrow, a modern building, brick and glass, which housed the refectory._

_Timothy scowled in annoyance at the giant man, who was clearly visible, being himself. Unfortunately, someone else had also seen him. _

_The large feline sprinted away, he and Wulfric desperately giving chase...only to come to a skidding halt, watching in horror as she ploughed straight towards the large window, Carrow whirling round in surprise, as two St Bernards worth of cat hit the large pane at roughly forty miles an hour, shards of glass raining down in a tinkling cacophony. Artemis, completely unbothered, threw herself at her daddy, turning into a squirming kittenish pile of fur and paws and teeth, muttering and huffing excitedly, as Carrow murmured softly to her, massaging behind her ears, hugging her in his lap._

_Timothy carefully stepped through the gap, slowly approaching the pair, glass crunching under his feet, doing his best to ignore the wide-eyed stares of the numerous spectators, whose breakfasts had been so rudely interrupted._

"_She missed you, you know," he said as Carrow tried unsuccessfully to avoid an affectionate lick across the face._

"_Oh, that's just typical," a voice came from the crowd of spectators, "trust the giant prat to have a pet tiger..."_

...and things really hadn't got any better from there. He was certainly going to be avoiding _that_ part of the Midlands for the near future. All things considered...yes...he carefully propped the letter up in front of Carrow's usual seat.

Felix dashed past, laces flapping, making a bee-line for the toast and the marmite jar, Artemis insinuating her way through the door after him.

"Laces, Felix," Timothy said, almost by reflex, as he opened the day's edition of the _Hollow's Herald. _Smirking slightly at the grumbling from the other end of the table, he relaxed with the news. Marauding swans camping on lawns...a vandalised bus shelter...a thief managing to steal £26.42 from a corner shop...and the local Scout troupe were doing a sponsored canoe paddle to raise money for the Mary Winkle Hospice. It was all so mundane and normal, refreshingly dull and small.

"Have you thought of any ideas for a birthday present for Tiffany yet?" he asked idly as he gave the local sports a casual glance over.

Felix hummed and hahed a moment. "I don't know what to get her," he said, "she's a _girl_ and we've only met a few times so..."

"I can always ask her mum for suggestion," Timothy said as he turned back to the crossword, "or you could just ask her yourself on Saturday...as long as it's not a Centurion tank..."

Felix giggled. "Okay."

Actually, that was a terrible thought, particularly since Carrow was capable of acquiring one. He could just imagine Trudi's face on finding a tank parked on her front lawn.

"Felix," Wulfric's exasperated voice came from the doorway, "is that even good for her?"

Timothy glared suspiciously over the top of the paper, dreading a repeat of the marmalade incident. Felix was sat there with toast in one hand, marmite spoon in the other, Artemis licking it clean. She turned towards him, eyes half closed, tongue protruding as far as it would go.

Timothy sighed in exasperation. "Felix, I'm not even sure she's enjoying that...and how much have you fed her anyway?" He glared at the wayward cat-boy. Felix's ears twitched back guiltily.

"A few spoons," he mumbled, "maybe three...or four...or erm, six...seven?" He shuffled guiltily on his chair.

"And you put the spoon back in the jar each time, didn't you," Timothy sighed heavily.

"Oh, yuck, Felix," Wulfric exclaimed, "that spoon's got to be covered with tiger slobber...disgusting...no marmite for me this morning."

"Who's been feeding Artemis what?" a deep booing growl sounded from behind them. Carrow strode forward, newly washed and dressed in what he felt was appropriate for the office. The faint odour announced his recent presence in the Chapel and, Timothy eyed the large man's disgruntled expression, an argument with his father's portrait. It was almost amusing how alike in personality the two of them were.

"Marmite," Timothy sighed as Carrow picked up the envelope curiously, "it shouldn't do her any harm...I think." He grimaced as Felix sneakily gave her another spoon.

Carrow grumbled to himself as he carefully opened the envelope, the room descending into the usual morning quiet.

"Plate glass window," he suddenly announced with a scowl. "The University has billed me for their window."

Timothy looked up from his second cup of coffee. "Hmm, I suppose they were waiting for their insurance company, must be difficult trying to explain that a tiger ran through your window."

Carrow gave him a strange look. "They had camera footage, why would there be a problem?"

Timothy opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it; it was doubtful the great big lump would understand. "Never mind," he said, and went back to the paper.

"I have the designs for our display at the Weapons Expo next spring finished," Carrow suddenly announced, "I thought it expedient to do it now so the displays could be finished in time."

Timothy eyed him suspiciously. "And of course the Board need to see them and approve them," he said, not trusting Carrow's sense of taste an inch.

"A formality, of course," Carrow nodded, as he picked up the next paper on the pile.

"They need to check the appropriateness of the designs, make sure that we won't get banned from the Expo...permanently, for breaking the rules," Timothy watched the big lump with narrowed eyes as he browsed through the FT.

"Rules?" Carrow asked.

"Yes, rules," Timothy said, sipping his coffee, "nothing that glorifies war or blatantly promotes violence is permitted."

Carrow gave him a funny look over the paper. "That's ridiculous, we're an arms manufactorium, for Throne's sake."

Timothy shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

Carrow shook his head in disgust. "Are you ready, Felix?"

Felix bounced out of his seat, grabbing a rucksack Timothy hadn't noticed. He stared in growing consternation at the white shirt, the royal blue jumper and grey trousers and the striped blue and grey tie.

"That's the local primary school uniform...Geoffrey Sutton Junior School...what are you up to?" Timothy snapped at Carrow. "You _know_ we can't let Felix mix with the mundane world freely, he's just too obviously magical."

Carrow blinked down at him. "How utterly ridiculous," he growled, "Felix is first and foremost a child, as such he needs the company of other children, and as to his being..._magical_ in appearance, utter rubbish."

Timothy snarled in frustration, trying to be as intimidating as he could, getting right into Carrow's personal space. "So you don't think Felix's extra appendages are going to arouse curiosity and even outright hostility? I don't want Felix to suffer any more because of...because of..." He turned to look at the boy in question, who was watching their argument intently, his tail twitching back and forth.

"And how will Felix grow strong?" Carrow countered. "He needs to learn to stand up for himself, to be proud of who he is...he has already made great strides towards this, and since a number of his young friends from karate will also be in his class, I'm sure Felix will be perfectly all right." He smiled smugly.

Timothy blanched in horror; _karate classes?!_ When had Carrow managed that, the sneaky...underhanded...giant...great big...

"The Statute of Secrecy," he ground out, gritting his teeth in frustrated anger, "Felix is blatantly magical, so we will be violating the Statute."

Carrow sneered. "What a fuss over nothing. Felix's physicality falls well within the range of human normalcy. I've seen far more extreme bodily modifications over the years."

Timothy began to object.

"_Enough,_" Carrow snapped, "come along Felix, we mustn't be late for your first day at school." Turning, he exited the Breakfast room in a swirl of embossed leather robes, Felix trotting after him, giving Timothy an apologetic shrug as he went past.

Slumping in the nearest chair, Timothy buried his face in his hands. The fallout from this...he dreaded to think.

"He really doesn't care, does he," Wulfric cheerfully commented from across the table, munching on a slice of toast.

Timothy glared.

OOOOOO

Teaching had been a strange experience so far, not helped by the Castle being far stranger than he remembered. There had been several reoccurrences of the rain of rubber ducks and...it was daft really, but everywhere he went he felt as if he was being watched by something or someone...but no matter.

The first and second years had been much as he had expected, the eager faces, the enthusiasm, and the complete lack of experience. Had he ever been like that, that green and young? It seemed hard to remember himself and all his friends so youthful, so inexperienced...his heart gave an unpleasant jolt, as a particularly nasty part of his mind gleefully pointed out that they were all dead...or gone...or disappeared...except for Snape, he thought sourly. How the hell had _he_ managed to oil his way out of trouble? He jerked his mind away from that train of thought; he needed to keep focused, damn it...

...but the third years had all been rather skittish, while the seventh years had been rather...highly strung. He'd nearly had his head blown off by a _Hufflepuff, _of all people, for moving too suddenly, too near her...

He glared at the students as they filed in; yes, he definitely needed to keep focused today. This was to be his first class with the fourth year Gryffindors, the once classmates of the elusive Boy-who-lived. He smirked to himself; he'd got a hell of a class planned for them, one that they would never forget.

"Constant vigilance!" he roared as the students settled down at their desks. A few drew their wands, while throwing themselves behind cover, the rest dived under their desks with a scream.

Barty froze, that wasn't the reaction he was expecting; what was going on here? "In your seats now!" he roared, putting his question aside. The students scrambled on to their chairs, watching him with a mixture of expectation and resigned horror.

He scowled to himself. "As a favour to the Headmaster and to provide extra security because of the Triwizard tournament, I'm here to teach you Defence Against the Dark Arts, for one year only! To equip you with the skills and knowledge so that you do not fall afoul of the realities of the world beyond your cozy school-days." He limped back and forth in front of the class. "I understand you had Remus Lupin as professor last year. From his notes he's given you a thorough grounding in the basics, minor dark-creatures, magical household pests and the like. I am here to build on that." He paused in front of the black-board, glaring impressively at the class.

The class stared back at him, their reactions a spectrum ranging from acute boredom to gut-wrenching anxiety. A boy at the back yawned widely. Barty scowled. "Which is why," he glared at the miscreant, "I will be demonstrating the Unforgivables. I think you're ready for it, and so does the Headmaster... yes? You have a question?" he asked.

The student who'd raised their hand nodded. Was it a boy or a girl? Barty huffed in annoyance, he really couldn't tell sometimes nowadays, what with boys with long hair and girls with short; what was the world coming to?

"Are we going to be learning the Imperius curse?" the student asked breathlessly, an excited grin on her face that would have done Bella proud.

Barty blinked in surprise, he could understand a Slytherin asking that question, but a _Gryffindor?_

"Hermione," the red-head, definitely a boy, next to her hissed.

"Miss?" he asked, scowling at this strange Gryffindor.

"Granger," she replied, "Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger, we are will be merely studying the Unforgivable curses," he put the jars with the specially caught spiders down on the desk with a series of satisfying thumps. "After all, they are _highly_ _illegal_ for good reason, and the use of any one will gain you a nice long stay in Azkaban...a place I can assure you you do not want to end up." He glared impressively over the class.

The class stared back, cynical and bored. "Not practical then," someone distinctly muttered.

Barty growled, bloody teenagers, no respect. "Constant Vigilance!" he barked causing the brats to jump in their seats, glaring; a few even had the cheek to roll their eyes.

"Who can tell me what the three Unforgivable curses are?" he snarled as he unscrewed the lid of one of the jars efficiently decanting the spider onto his desk-top. A few raised hands greeted his question, but the rest...Barty glowered; the peculiar Gryffindor girl had sneaked a book out of her bag and was reading it under the desk; _Krav Maga for the Martial Artist,_ whatever that was. Her desk partner, expression glazed, was looking at anywhere except where he should..."Miss Granger, instead of reading your book, perhaps you can answer my question!" he roared.

The girl startled and glared. "The Imperius curse, used to subvert another's will to your own, enabling you to control their actions from a distance...like a puppet," she smirked slightly.

"Correct," Barty snapped. This Granger girl was hit-witch material...or worse, he thought darkly; what _was_ Hogwarts coming to? He enlarged the spider with a deft flick of his wand. "As I will now demonstrate..."

oOo

Barty waited until the last student had trailed out of the classroom before venting his feelings, kicking his desk with a snarl, and promptly landing on his bottom as he overbalanced. He dragged himself to his chair, cursing darkly; what _was_ with these children? He'd demonstrated all _three_ of the Unforgivables to the unappreciative brats, who'd all sat there with an air of polite boredom. One had even had the audacity to fall asleep using his text book for a pillow. He'd given the blasted brat detention. The Imperius had only interested Granger the budding little sociopath, the Cruciatus had received cynical laughter, and as for their reactions to the Killing curse itself...to say they had been indifferent was putting it mildly.

And that wasn't the only thing they were indifferent about; the reception the announcement of the Triwizard tournament had received was luke-warm at best, it even seemed to be attracting some resentment due to the cancellation of the usual Quidditch. _Children_...there was no pleasing them...

And when he'd asked if there were any questions at the end of the class, he'd been bombarded with them all right, just not a single one related to the actual class itself.

Were there going to be any duels?

Would they get any opportunities to kill creatures in class?

Could they use the duelling pit for Defence Club, please?

When was he going to oversee the first official meeting of the Defence Club?

Was he going to join them for their morning exercises?

Could he bring in a live acromantula for the Duelling pit...for them to fight...please?

He'd snarled and growled his way through them, set four feet of essay on the history of the Unforgivables, due next week, and sent the little brats packing. He slumped down in his chair; where had they got the idea for that last one from? Absolutely crazy!

"Alastor, are you all right?" a concerned voice asked. Barty looked up to find the Headmaster himself standing in the doorway of the classroom, exactly the last person he wanted to see at the moment. He swallowed nervously. "Just feeling more my age than I'd like...blasted brats asked me for a live acromantula for the Defence Club, of all things."

The Headmaster chuckled as he strolled in and perched on the edge of a desk. "Ah yes, I'm not entirely surprised," he smiled.

Barty scowled. "Who's been teaching them? I can't imagine young Remus giving them ideas like that, far too sensible, nor that spineless fop Lockhart, whatever happened to him..." he glared at the older man with narrowed eyes.

"I'm afraid Mr Lockhart had to leave us rather suddenly," Dumbledore said, his expression serious, "and the interim professor I was able to acquire was rather...eccentric, though very capable." He smiled merrily.

Interim professor? This was the first time anyone had mentioned anything about such a person. He should ask...but shouldn't it be common knowledge...but not discussed much...and he was expected to already know, and if he asked...

"Nice weather we're having today, unseasonably warm," the Headmaster gazed out of the window at the blue sky beyond.

Barty groaned softly to himself; looked like he was going to have to break out the Veritaserum yet again.

OOOOOO

The sound of grinding teeth broke the soft sound of snoring that had descended on the History of Magic class shortly after it had begun. Ron shot Hermione a concerned glance as he carefully took notes from the textbook. One of the Ravenclaw Defence Club members had recommended this approach to him, along with a little tutorial on silencing charms and the like. History had become bearable, just...

A small snarl followed by a sharp snap distracted him again, and he turned to find Hermione sitting there, hands in fists, her quill snapped in half, glaring furiously at their spectral professor.

"Hermione," he murmured in concern, "wha..."

"Just look around you," Hermione snarled, "just look at how pointless this class is, and History is _important_."

Ron eyed her warily, but glanced round anyway; as usual the majority of the students were asleep or comatose to some degree, apart from himself and Hermione...and Neville, who was busily being a bear. "Not precisely constructive, I see your point, but it's been like this for years, so..." He shrugged.

"Yes, it's been like this for _years_," Hermione snarled, making Seamus startle awake. Looking round, the boy caught Hermione's furious gaze and ducked round, attempting to look busy. "We need to do something about it, like permanently fix it!" Casting some extra privacy charms, she turned to look Ron in the eye.

Ron watched her warily, noting the fanatical gleam in her eyes; when Hermione got on her soap-box...

"And I know exactly what we need to do, too," she said, beginning to smile.

Ron suddenly understood what a seal faced with a shark felt like. "We?" he said nervously.

"Yes, _we._" She narrowed her eyes. "I helped you with your little campaign last year, so now it's my turn."

Well, he couldn't deny that, could he? He sighed. "What do we need to do...and when?" he asked, resigned to his fate.

Hermione tugged on her thread wrapped braid, the gold skull beads glinting in the drab light, the lone survivor of the massacre of her hair, chewing her bottom lip. "Hmm, I just need to clarify a few details as to how, but when...definitely Halloween," she gave a decisive nod, "it's a magically powerful time, so it will aid us in our aim, but also it's when the Tri-Wizard contestants will be selected. Everything will be really busy and hectic, so we'll easily be able to slip away."

"The Tri-Wizard tournament," Ron groaned, he'd forgotten all about it, "they cancelled Quidditch for _that_," he grumbled.

OOOOOO

Why, oh why, was he doing this? The wooden leg squelched nastily as it sank into a muddy puddle, succeeding in splashing dirty water into his boot. Not that it made much difference, since he was already soaked to the skin, chilly water making its slow and miserable way down his spine.

And yet...

...the Defence Club stampeded past, shouting "one, two, one, two," as they did so...

...they seemed to be actually enjoying themselves, wearing heavy black boots, and weird blotchy green muggle looking clothes (except Granger who was in black), carrying heavy backpacks. Some of them even had funny looking helmets, those without making up for their lack with ugly sludge green knitted hats.

And they did this every morning, regardless of the weather, the mad idiots, and he couldn't say no because he was Moody, and old Mad-eye "Murdering Bastard" Moody would absolutely love this.

Sometimes, he hated his life.

OOOOOO

"Well, this is a complete cluster fuck isn't it?" Fitch commented conversationally to the others. Corporal Faulks gave a sarcastic huff, as some of the others laughed cynically. Fitch glanced at Matthew in concern. Ever since _that_ incident...well, they were in trouble that went without saying, like huge career ending, buried in epic shit sort of trouble, since they'd gone missing and out of communication for close on twelve hours, picked off the end of the patrol. When Patrol leader had realised what had happened and had turned back to rescue them they had already been kidnapped by the Corp's bloody little brother...stupid little sod...so that was a whole other pile of shit they'd landed in.

When they had returned, battered, bloodied and looking the worse for wear, he'd missed the worst of it, thanks to that bloody injury. He'd have preferred to have been conscious and standing alongside the rest of the squad during that initial chewing out, but no, he'd woken up in the hospital a day later, to find some very grim faced gentlemen with red berets wanting to have a little chat, and things had gone downhill from there...

Thank sweet Mary and Jesus they'd got all those photos. Ed had shot nearly ten films worth in the end, despite his moaning, none of which was going to end up in the photo-book he was trying to put together (even his negatives had been confiscated), and they'd kept a careful record of exactly where the giant armoured nut-case was taking them to, plus it had been incredibly helpful that he'd decided to burn that town down. Very difficult thing to miss, a burning town...

...if they hadn't got all that evidence backing them up there would have been no way anyone would have believed them...like, zombie attack, no way...

They'd been completely banned from talking to anyone about their weird adventure on pain of...dishonourable discharge as far as he could tell...or could have been just outright disappearance, considering the scary people in expensive suits who'd turned up with the Military Police the second time they were questioned...

And because they couldn't explain to anyone, they were now virtual lepers with the rest of the platoon. It was depressing in the extreme.

"The worst bit," Mattie growled glaring into the depths of his coffee mug, "the worst bit is the motor-pool's sent me to Coventry because that giant bloody _twat_ left a great big hand-shaped dent in the top of the APC!" He looked up. "As if I...we, deliberately _asked _him to do it...and I can't even tell them..."

The squad watched sympathetically as the Corporal finally began to rant. He'd been so quiet since this had all began that they'd started to get a bit concerned about him.

"...is going to go on for months. It's only a matter of time before we end up giving a bunch of big-wigs a tour of the countryside, you mark my words."

"Make a change from being confined to barracks," Ed grumbled before rapidly wilting under the Corporal's glare.

Fitch shifted uncomfortably on top of the crate he'd nabbed as a seat. Seriously, they all needed something to cheer them up, something to take their mind off the bloody crazy situation they'd been dumped in by a bunch of civvies...whatever they were. "I know Timmie the Civvie sort of joked about it," he began, attracting a series of frowns from the others, "but what about we actually write that _When Zombies Attack_ manual?" He ducked down, pretending to be more interested in his tea when members of another squad went past, glaring at them suspiciously. Matthew and the others glared back.

Fitch gazed down at his arm, eying the two pale horseshoe scars that now marred his dark skin. "My mum's going to do her nut when she sees this," he muttered. He looked up at the others, the uncomfortable silence almost physically tangible. "So what about it then?" he asked, "cause I really want to avoid a repeat of this," he held up his scarred forearm for all to see, "and at least it's something constructive to do..." He looked around the others.

"Huh, so..." Mattie said slowly, "recognising the uncanny, their strengths and weaknesses, dealing with injuries..."

Fitch nodded, "yeah, exactly...best ways to exploit their weaknesses, all that sort of thing."

Matthew looked thoughtful for a moment. "Alright, let's do it..."

OOOOOO

Barty looked over his shoulder. The corridor was deserted, so he didn't have to be subtle about it, but still he couldn't find who was watching him. It was really getting on his nerves now, even giving him uneasy dreams, disturbing his sleep...he spun round wand raised...nothing, just a very ruffled and crabby looking portrait, who glared at him, harrumphing to themselves, before ducking out of their frame. Barty watched them go, blinking in bewilderment; he must be more tired than he thought. For a moment there, he thought he'd seen a gigantic battle scarred man with a huge grizzled beard with bone totems in it...in strange grey armour...he shook his head. Obviously he should risk a sleep potion tonight if he was starting to hallucinate like that...

He carried on to his office, heart heavy, to give yet another likely to be poorly received report to his Master...

"What do you mean, they're stealing weapons?" the Dark Lord snapped.

Barty cringed slightly, as he made Moody more comfortable after his evening exercise; no point in killing the mad old Auror too soon. "The Defence Club...they're scavenging weapons from all over the Castle, and erm, fighting with them during the evenings."

The Dark Lord gave him a funny look, which only further enhanced his appearance of an angry flayed baby. "Like _muggles_," he hissed, "how very peculiar...and any more news of my wand?"

This was the moment he'd been dreading. Barty swallowed nervously, as he steeled himself, before relaying the results of his latest Veritserum fuelled interrogation held surreptitiously during his evening walking of the prisoner. It was risky, but paying dividends handsomely.

"Master, your wand was discovered in the procession of Peter Pettigrew shortly after he was arrested," he shifted uncomfortably, "and Mr Carrow was present...and insisted on destroying your wand when it was identified as such. He used a small controlled burst of, ermm, fiend-fyre. According to Moody's memories, the destruction was total; there wasn't even any ash."

He watched worriedly as the Dark Lord froze, hunching down in his robes, his gaze going to the box, the hideous evil box...

"My Lord?" Barty whispered, concerned...

OOOOOO

Sirius sat back in the comfortable over upholstered chair and watched in absolute fascination as Madam Longbottom and cousin _Cissy_ actually managed to converse politely, without wands drawn or anything! He hadn't realised that things were going to be this entertaining when he'd agreed to join in with Dumbledore's little political group...they were _actually _working together, a little stilted and stiffly to be sure, but...he hid a grin. It was nothing short of a miracle. He gazed over his shoulder towards the window half expecting a troll in a tutu to fly past, but no, just the grey sky promising yet more drizzle and the dark and increasingly leafless trees of the Forbidden Forest. Blinking, he returned to the conversation.

"...ridiculous idea," Ptolemy Chant was saying, "all the fuss and bother of transporting our children to one location just to teach them their letters and numbers and the like...and how are they supposed to learn their family traditions?"

A childhood full of lots of other children. Sirius sighed, until he'd gone to Hogwarts there had just been him and Reggie, with occasional meetings with various cousins and more distant relatives, but all of it in the most stultifying conditions, with his mother breathing down his neck, controlling his every move. No wonder he'd gone as wild as he had. Hogwarts by comparison had been a breath of fresh air...quite literally...and ending up in Gryffindor with James, even further away from the suffocating influence of his family...it had all ensured there weren't exactly many stopping charms on his behaviour as it were. How different would things have been if he'd been able to go to school that much earlier?

"I think it would have been brilliant starting school so early," he said wistfully butting into the circular argument that was currently making its way round the table, "a day spent with lots of other magical children learning together, then...out in the playground running around with thirty...forty, maybe more, children...playing, talking...Lily explained the muggle school system to me once," his smile turned pained, "it's always appealed to me..."

The others looked at him oddly, even Elphias Dodge. Dumbledore leaned back smiling beatifically at the small gathering, apparently content to see where this would lead.

"What about family traditions, Siri? They're such an important part of any child's pre-Hogwarts education." Narcissa pointed out, giving him that long suffering look.

"Well, if it's run like a muggle primary school," Sirius explained, "they have classes Mon..."

"That's beside the point," Ptolemy snapped, "part of the Undersecretary's plan seemed to be the inclusion of _muggleborns _ as early as possible...which I'm not sure I entirely approve of at all, watering down our culture and heritage," he grumbled scowling.

"Ptolemy, it goes both ways you know," Dumbledore gently reminded the other man with an admonishing look, "this could be a golden opportunity to avoid some of the difficulties some of our muggle-born students experience each year. They would understand Wizarding culture better and, most importantly have made friends, before they entered Hogwarts." He adjusted his glasses. "I must admit that on the surface dear Allesandor's proposal does rather appeal to me, but the man is anything but straightforward...there must be some ulterior motive to this...hmm...indoctrination maybe...moving on." He looked round the odd group meaningfully. "Allesandor is of course continuing with his anti-corruption drive within the Ministry...which is highly laudable, if uncomfortable..." He sorted through the sizable pile of parchment in front of him, a list of everything he was aware Carrow currently involved in. "Does the man ever sleep? He's involved in so many things...next item...hmm...not entirely related to Mr Carrow...it is distressing to note just how many of the Wizengamot seats are actually empty, and with Mr Carrow's investigations alongside the DMLE, a number of previously occupied seats have been revealed to have been acquired under...less that desirable conditions, emptying even more of course." He looked around the table his expression grim. "Which means it is increasingly easy for Mr Carrow to acquire his needed majority vote." He sighed heavily. "I've been talking to Aleister Mayhew and apparently Allesandor," he rubbed his forehead in exasperation, "has been making oh-so not-so-subtle overtures towards him and those Wizengamot representatives who still maintain some degree of neutrality..."

"Aleister Mayhew? Oh dear," Dodge exclaimed, "no wonder he looked so hunted, I approached him too."

"As did I," Narcissa added, looking slightly guilty.

Sirius grimaced. "He told me to bugger off, and _then_ he tried hexing me," he scowled, "and I'd done my best to be really polite and proper too."

"Wonder why?" Narcissa commented. Madam Longbottom hastily coughed into her hand.

Sirius glared at the smirking woman. "Anyway..." he said, "what's happening about the empty seats?"

"Well...nothing," Cuthbert looked at him oddly, "the direct family lines have died out. I suppose eventually in the natural course of things they may well be auctioned off or given as rewards to particularly notable up-and-coming families," he sniffed disdainfully, making his opinion of that option particularly clear.

"Wow, my godson would absolutely love that wouldn't he?" Sirius settled back in his chair. "Hmm...generally, the seat has to go to a direct descendent via the male line...maybe...what if...cousins could inherit or...it could descend through the female line as well...the seats would stay in their families, but also it would minimise the potential for my darling little godson to be able to dictate things...make demands..." He looked round the table at the blank stares he was receiving from the others. "What? Was it something I said?"

Dumbledore blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. "What a marvellous idea, Sirius, yes, that certainly has possibilities..."

OOOOOO

Putting the final finishing touches to his latest attempt at manipulating gravity had taken the better part of a month, checking and double checking that it wasn't in fact going to blow up in his flat like the last one. It had been rather awkward explaining the broken windows, definitely something he wanted to avoid in future, and frankly he didn't think Widow Weber would limit herself to banging on the ceiling if it happened again.

He twisted the device again where it sat on the coffee table. It looked remarkably like a Chinese puzzle-ball, but the fret-work was, he had to admit, eye-smarting...yes, that should do it. He'd succeeded in levitating objects, even used it as a propulsion system. He grinned at the thought of his hover board; he'd actually succeeded in doing a triple loop-the-loop the other day, absolutely brilliant...but this...if this went well, he would have his very own little packet of zero-gravity that he could manipulate and experiment with. The possible industrial applications alone would probably keep him occupied for the next couple of decades...

Pulling his pencil-wand from behind his ear, the God-Emperor of Mankind gave the device a couple of precise jabs, runes flaring into life, blue bale-fyre dancing and shimmering.

A distinct hum rose in the air as the device came to life, its nested spheres spinning with increasing rapidity, a blue haze beginning to coalesce around its frantically vibrating form.

The God-Emperor eyed it warily. Well, it was certainly looking very _busy,_ but as for the effects...he leant towards the bowl of ping-pong balls he'd put aside for this exact purpose...only for his legs to drift out from under him, as he nudged into the coffee-table, which slowly drifted away in the opposite direction, bumping into the sofa before slowly ricocheting off the ceiling. He gaped as the floor drifted away, a spiralling trail of ping-pong balls following him upwards.

Wow...he'd done it... succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. With a grin, he gently pushed away from the ceiling towards the coffee table, the ping-pong balls bouncing off him as he went past...except he missed and, losing momentum, came to a halt roughly in the middle of the room.

"Oh, blast it!" he exclaimed in frustration as he slowly twirled in place, the floor gently rotating above him, the coffee-table drifting idly by, listing drunkenly, the anti-gravity device still firmly planted on its top, whirring more frantically than ever. He watched in concern; was it heating up? He tried to reach for it...

...from below came a surprised shriek, followed by a great deal of swearing, the flat on the left, childish screams of alarm followed by a delighted whoop and giggling...oh no...the pocket of zero-gravity was increasing...he frantically tried to move towards the device, swimming in place and getting absolutely nowhere...though he probably did manage to look absolutely ridiculous.

The whirring of the spheres increased, their runic inscriptions an illegible blur. The God-Emperor increased his frantic attempts to reach his creation before it affected the entire building, produced an even stranger effect...or simply blew up. If he could just turn it off... the childish whoops and giggles had been joined by frightened adult shouting...he tried to push off a passing chair sending it spinning towards the wall and himself slowly in towards the coffee-table. The device made a clicking noise, the spinning spheres coming to a sudden and catastrophic halt, cracks appearing across their surface, the glow of the runes slowly dying...

Oh no...the God-Emperor flailed, trying to get himself into a more upright position, but no joy; the floor rapidly came towards him, making its hard and unyielding presence felt, any unsecured objects raining down around him with a thunderous crash, muffled shrieks and shouts coming through the walls...and then silence. Wincing, he warily opened an eye, only to be struck square on the forehead by the last air-borne ping-pong ball.

Groaning, he untangled himself and pulled himself upright, looking round at the destruction of his living room, the only unscathed item his floating coaster still with a mug of coffee on it...this was going to take _hours_ to fix.

Muffled crying drifted through the walls, as hammering and angry shouting from below told him exactly what the lovely Widow Weber thought of his latest experiment. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was going to have to go round to the neighbours too...how was he going to explain this?


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Chapter 4

He'd managed to fix the contents of all but two of the flats his little zero-gravity experiment had affected; well, everything except the most complex of the electronic equipment. Unfortunately, that was currently beyond his "magical" skills. He was still certain there was a perfectly rational explanation for it. He had decided to save the lovely Widow Weber's residence for last, so now he was creeping through the dark and silent living room of the family who lived to his right.

He winced guiltily at the mess; broken pieces of furniture carefully stacked in a corner, other items obviously salvaged against the far wall, a broom forlornly propped up against a gate-leaf table that exhibited a nasty and very fresh looking gash across its top. The God-Emperor winced; a flick of his pencil-wand, and the top was as good as new. One down, many, many to go...

Sitting cross legged on the carpet, he pulled a box towards him, neatly repaired kitchen chairs stacked behind him, next to a display cabinet that had regained its glazing. He looked in. Ah, ornaments, his favourite...not.

Six droopy shepherdesses later, he came across a carriage clock, an obvious family heirloom. His heart twinged with guilt; he really needed a proper place, a _safe_ place for his experiments. Holes in ceilings were annoying but reparable, but this was...this was peoples' family history and he'd broken it. The distress he must have caused...well, he was just going to make sure he did a good job of mending it...

The last cog slipped neatly into place, its fixture tightening. He eyed his handiwork critically; no sign of wear on the cogs, the spring unbroken, yes, that should do it. Carefully, he wound it up, and it sprung to life, the regulator rocking back and forth, the cogs ticking smoothly past one another...perfect. He set the time...hmm, quarter past three in the morning, this had taken him longer than he'd thought. Now, should he set it to chime or not?

"It's never worked before," an awestruck voice said by his elbow. The God-Emperor startled, nearly dropping the newly mended clock. There, sitting next to him, was a little boy in stripy pyjamas, gazing up at him in fascination. "Hullo," he said grinning, and displaying his missing upper incisors.

"Hello," the God-Emperor said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Are you Santa?" the little boy asked.

"Erm...no," he replied, "I err...I'm a physicist and I was doing this experiment with zero-gravity and it went wrong." He watched the small boy desperately. Was he doing this right? He didn't have much contact with small children. "Well, it went alright...but it was more effective than I thought, and instead of getting a small pocket of null-gravity it, erm...grew and grew..."

The little boy nodded solemnly. "It was fun. I was being an astronaut with my space rocket," he held up the toy which looked to be in some distress, "but then I fell on the sofa, but my rocket fell on the floor...and then the end fell off." He looked up at the God-Emperor sadly.

"Well, I'm sure I can do something about that," the God-Emperor said with a smile, giving the toy a smart rap with his pencil-wand. The loose parts welded themselves back into place seamlessly before the awed owner's eyes. "Like magic," he breathed, "are you sure you're not Santa?"

"I'm just a physicist," the God-Emperor said, as he mended yet another droopy shepherdess.

"What about one of Santa's elves?" the little boy asked.

"Not even that..."

The God-Emperor steeled himself. How did Widow Weber's door manage to look more menacing than all the others? Well, he had a job to do. A click and the door opened on to the dark flat beyond. Oh thank goodness, Widow Weber was asleep, he'd be able to do this and get back out with her being none the wiser. Carefully, he crept in to assess the damage...hmm, more broken chairs...a three legged table...a badly dented table-la...

The lights snapped on, and something hard made sudden contact with his left shin. Yelping in surprise, he whirled to find a furious Widow Weber standing there wielding her broom as if it were a halberd. "You thoughtless lout!" she shrieked.

OOOOOO

His formal office at the Lodge was rather nice, a blend of the old and the new that had set the man from English Heritage tutting and frowning (though that could have been the obviously used ashtray on his desk), set in the Tudor part of the building, its large leaded window looking out over the formal walled garden; if he leaned back in his chair, he could see the Orangery.

Pale lime-washed wooden panelling and a beautifully painted sky ceiling kept the room feeling light and airy, even if the putti who flew across the ceiling trailing ribbons had a tendency to rest on the edges and peer down at him curiously while he worked.

The family portraits that hung around the room weren't quite so appreciative of the modern and very _muggle_ technology he was using. They also didn't like the battle-scene that Carrow had gifted him either. Timothy had to admit he had his reservations too; it was extraordinarily noisy, and spent most of its time under a silencing charm, but that didn't detract from the terrifying vision of a colossus of a war-machine Carrow called a Titan marching ponderously across a distant horizon crushing all before it, its vast weapons firing with dazzling flashes of light.

It all contrasted sharply with the very expensive and very modern office furniture, all steel and glass. On the other side of the marble fireplace was a second desk, a recent addition, behind which sat a stressed looking Percy Weasley. Timothy eyed the younger man a moment; his typing had radically improved, but he had a feeling that Percy was never going to quite overcome his losing battle with the photocopier...or his terror of anything that contained a microprocessor.

He turned back to his own mountain of paperwork with a heavy sigh, turning to the lengthy report from Carrow's contact (more like spy) within the Muggle Liaison Department. The ill-will that was being stored up there was utterly breath-taking, and all because of the arrogance and incompetence of a few individuals. Even the contact wasn't happy about the situation, and he was a pure-blood. Should he bring this to Carrow's attention? Well, yes probably, the department would suddenly become highly effective virtually overnight, but then Carrow would have his hooks buried even more deeply into the Ministry.

Oh, what the hell.

He dumped the folder on the pile for Carrow's attention. Next one...hmm...bill to change inheritance rights of Wizengamot seats...he frowned. What was this about? He flicked through it carefully...this was the work of Dumbledore and his group...a proposal to increase the possible candidates who could inherit Wizengamot seats. He rubbed a hand down his face. This could be advantageous to Carrow's cause, bring more seats into play, increase his unspoken majority; but of course it worked both ways. He added a note for Carrow's immediate attention to the front...

"I cannot find Artemis," the familiar growl sounded just feet away. Timothy suppressed the urge to flinch, and turned in his seat to be confronted with a sea of braid, the Purgatus of St Seraphim slithering its way across the broad chest...he looked up at Carrow...who was scowling down at him, with almost...was that concern? Beyond him, Percy watched with wide eyes.

"What about..." Timothy began.

"I've even asked the archaeologists," Carrow continued, "she hasn't been near their trenches either, even the one around the back of the kitchen gardens."

Timothy closed his mouth with a clack. "The attics?" he suggested.

Carrow shook his head. "I checked; the tiger-proof wards are still intact."

Well, that was concerning; where had the giant fur-ball managed to get in now, maybe a...

The phone rang, stridently trilling in the silent space. The portraits glared and grumbled. "How terribly anti-social," a particularly formidable witch complained, "all this new fangled nonsense, we didn't need it in _our_ day!" Her fellow portraits nodded and muttered in agreement.

Timothy shook his head, ignoring the grumbling Potter ancestors. "The Lodge. Can I help you?" he announced into the handset.

"Mr Carrow?" a frazzled male voice asked on the other end of the line.

Timothy blinked; it wasn't every day he was mistaken for his employer. "Erm, no, I'm Timothy Faulks, Mr Carrow's secretary."

"Oh...Mr Faulks," the voice wavered, "this is Geoffrey Sutton Junior School...erm, your ward, Felix Trebor, has brought a _tiger_ into the school and..."

But Timothy wasn't really listening. Oh grief, Felix was such a handful. He'd already got into several fist fights with other students, mainly over attempts to bully him over his appearance, and then of course there was that time some bright spark had dared him to climb up the curtains in the assembly hall only for him to be caught half way up, and he'd only been there a couple of months.

"Felix took Artemis with him to school," he whispered to Carrow, a hand over the mouth piece.

Carrow stared back at him, expression unreadable. "I will go and retrieve her at once," he growled, turning on his heel, the hem of his leather great coat snapping around his heels.

"Wait," Timothy shouted desperately after him. "Oh...crap," he muttered to himself; how further traumatised could a bunch of school-children get? After all, they had just met a tiger; a close encounter with a leather clad over-enthusiastic sociopath should be nothing. "Mr Carrow is coming to pick Artemis up now," he told the panicking man.

"Artemis?" came the stressed reply.

"Yes," Timothy said, "the tiger...her name is Artemis."

oOo

Felix was the first thing he noticed as he shouldered his way through the annoyingly tiny door. The lad was slumped on a plastic chair and blatantly sulking, arms folded over his chest, ears back and bottom lip protruding, his tail twitching irritably. It was quite endearing.

Carrow hid his amusement as he looked round the classroom, ignoring the irritating gabbling of the man who'd introduced himself as the school secretary. He blinked in surprise; what were all those children...and their teacher, doing huddled up against the far wall like that; weren't they supposed to be having a class? What sort of school _had_ he sent his ward to?

"I thought a lesson was supposed to be in progress," he frowned down disapprovingly at the nervous wreck of a secretary.

The shaken man made an inarticulate sound, pulling on his tie. "...the tiger," he squeaked, "there's a _tiger_ in the classroom..."

"She's quite domesticated, I assure you," Carrow told him, "very sweet natured, and good with children."

The school secretary went a peculiar custard colour, and stared at him as if he were quite mad. What a strange little man.

He strode past him to where Artemis sat peering back at him over her shoulder. She had propped her front paws on the window sill, and was happily watching a class outside who appeared to be doing calisthenics of some description, though a few of the children seemed rather distracted by the sight of Artemis peering through the window at them. She seemed quite content, so he left her for the moment.

And now for the little trouble-maker, he thought fondly. He crouched down in front of the lad, who seemed to droop down even further, peering up at him nervously. It was on some level, he felt, a moment as important as any battle he'd ever fought.

"Felix," he said as gently as he could, "I would like to know why you brought Artemis to school with you, please."

Felix was staring up at him now, green eyes wide, looking on the verge of tears. "They wouldn't believe me," his voice hitched, "they didn't believe I lived with a tiger and a monster-slaying giant in a castle with a moat. They kept on calling me a _liar_," he was crying in earnest now, "even Miss Therwick wouldn't believe me, so I had to...to show them somehow." He hiccupped and sniffled, rubbing at his eyes.

Carrow gazed down happily at his charge. "Ah, the revealing of uncomfortable truths; 'tis righteous work, young man, and worthy indeed. I approve whole-heartedly of your motives; you just need to work a little at perfecting your execution..."

Felix nodded tearfully.

"I was very concerned," Carrow continued, "when I could not find Artemis in her usual favourite haunts; it was only by good fortune that I happened to be in the office when the school rang." He looked severely at the sobbing child, and then sighed. "In future, ask me, and I'm sure suitable arrangements can be made...even for the monster slaying; though I must say the Lodge is more of a manor house these days rather than a castle...but it does indeed have a moat, which I would really like to re-flood and populate...maybe with sharks." He gave Felix a smile.

To his utter surprise, the boy launched himself forward flinging his arms around his neck, sobbing apologies into his high collar. Carrow wasn't entirely sure what to do in these situations, Timothy normally handled such things, but trusting to luck and the grace of the God-Emperor, he wrapped his arms gently around his charge and stood up, holding him carefully against his braid encrusted chest. The sobbing slowly began to reduce.

A clattering sound announced Artemis's clambering on top of the teacher's desk, the calisthenics class having departed inside. He turned to this Miss...Therwick with his most severe scowl, the one he usually reserved for the most corrupt and spineless of Planetary Governors. "Now, I do believe you have a class to teach, do you not," he growled menacingly, "and I expect you to _excel_ at it; only the best for my little boy, after all..."

oOo

The waiting room of the Veterinary Surgery was small, to him at least, filled with the scents of nervous animals intermingled with odours he normally associated with an Apothecarium; it was a strange and unique contrast.

Carrow blinked in surprise as he looked round at the few people waiting their creatures; hopefully, this...establishment would be able to provide Artemis with the medical check-up and inoculations that Miss Phillips-Worthington had been very insistent that she needed.

"I am here for an appointment for my cat," he announced to the wild-eyed receptionist, ducking down slightly so he could see through her hatch into her little cubby-hole office better. Despite being rather poky and crammed, it looked rather homely with a spider-plant sitting on top of a filing cabinet and a calendar on the wall featuring an improbably fluffy grey kitten sporting a blue bow. The poor creature looked rather cross about it too.

He quirked an eyebrow at the gaping receptionist.

"Erm...erm..." the young lady finally found her voice, "what...what...err name was it, sir?" she quavered.

"Mr Carrow, and my cat's name is Artemis." Carrow hid his sigh of annoyance. Meat bags...the tendency for their brains to cease all higher functions in his presence had become old very quickly. Timothy was such a refreshing change, particularly when he lost his temper.

The young lady picked nervously away at her cogitator for a moment. "Ah, yes," she giggled nervously, "erm...10.45am...Artemis Carrow...if you'd like to take a seat, sir."

Carrow eyed the provided seating with distaste. Feeling very put-upon, he sat on one of the incredibly uncomfortable and annoyingly flimsy chairs with an annoyed sigh.

The other inhabitants of the Waiting Room jerked in surprise, clutching their various pets. Artemis sidled behind his legs, peering round his knees shyly at these strangers. The strangers stared back, wide-eyed and terrified. Carrow scowled. It was as if they'd never seen a feline before.

A stupid but friendly looking dog padded across, tail wagging tentatively to say hello to Artemis. He watched carefully as the two animals sniffed delicately at one another, ignoring the ridiculous gibbering of the dog's owner. If there was any boisterous nonsense he would soon put an end to it.

Was that another dog? The thing perched on the elderly gentleman's lap was small and hairy, watching him intently with beady black eyes. And he wasn't even sure what was in that plastic carry-case, it had been squeaking incessantly when he'd arrived. Oh, and a small stripy feline, the fur on its back standing upright in a ridge. He sighed heavily; how long was he going to have to wait?

A door to the side of the reception opened, and a short stout woman in a white tunic and grey trousers stepped through, took one look at Artemis and blanched. "Erm...Artemis Carrow," she stuttered.

Ah, finally. Carrow bounced to his feet, the annoying meat-sacks flinching back in their chairs. Ignoring them, he strode through to the Veterinary Surgery Proper, ushering Artemis in before him.

A tall and gawky man with thinning blonde hair turned from washing his hands, freezing as Carrow scooped the rather bewildered Artemis up and placed her on the examination table. "I have been informed that my cat needs a medical examination...and possibly inoculations." He stared at the man expectantly.

The vet looked frozen in place, staring at Artemis, who, now she had settled down, was delicately washing a paw, and then at him. What had got into people today? Why were they being so...so ridiculous?

"She's a tiger," the vet finally found his voice, "I only treat _domestic_ animals, cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea-pigs, hamsters, gerbils...the odd chinchilla...you know..._pets_."

Carrow scowled. "Of course Artemis is a domestic animal, she lives in my house, and she is a feline, a _cat_. Therefore, she is obviously a domestic cat and falls under your pervue."

Artemis pawed at his sleeve, begging for attention, gazing up at him adoringly with her big blue eyes. As he ruffled the fur behind her ears, his rage at the vet dissipated to merely annoyed; she was such a wonderfully soothing animal, an excellent and loyal companion.

"Look," the vet scrunched his face up in exasperation, "she's not a domestic cat. I'll prove it to you," he said, when Carrow began to scowl. He disappeared into the back room, reappearing seconds later with an armful of grey fur, which looked round with bleary yellow eyes, one fore-leg bound in a sausage of white bandage. "This is Blossom, she is a fully grown domestic cat, specifically a Persian," he juggled her gently into a slightly more comfortable position, carefully nursing the injured leg, "she's a bit groggy at the moment, recovering from the anaesthetic. But you can see there's something of a difference in size and appearance. So, Artemis may be...domesticated, but she's a _tiger,_ and that means she needs to see a big-cat specialist."

Carrow considered the matter for a moment, looking between the two radically different felines, who were becoming increasingly interested in one another. The vet hurriedly took Blossom away to continue her recuperation in peace.

"But they must have the same physiology, just scaled up," Carrow pointed out, "surely it would not be beyond..."

"Absolutely _not_," the vet snapped, as he emerged from the back room looking rather pale, "that would be like a paediatrician giving you an examination. They might be able to make generalisations but they wouldn't be able to go into specifics. No, Artemis needs to see a specialist..." He frantically grabbed the phone, flipping through the address book next to it. "The local zoo has some big cats...and a vet who deals with them...I'll see if I can get you an appointment with her..."

"Or I could save you the trouble, and just go to this...zoo today," Carrow suggested.

"_What_, just walk through the front gates, with Artemis in tow?!" The vet looked appalled. "What a _stupid_ idea, do you want to get her sh...oh good morning, it's George Sparrow from Bloomfield Vetinary Practice. I was wondering whether you could help me, I've had a patient today who needs to see a specialist...yes...no...a tiger...seriously...no, no he's quite whole...probably not all there, no..."

Carrow sighed heavily, gently massaging Artemis's neck; this vet's business was turning out to be considerably more complicated than he thought.

OOOOOO

Rita Skeeter shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously, checking her shoulder bag and her camera. Had she remembered everything? Had she got spare quills? More film for the camera? Suzie Boo? She swallowed nervously; this was a big tip one of her contacts in the DMLE had passed on to her. Only minutes ago a poor owl had practically ricocheted off her kitchen table, and given its message's nature it was almost certain that Carrow or at least his team would be involved. This was it, a golden opportunity to emulate those muggle journalists, going into dangerous places, getting into the thick of the action and reporting it back, so the public can know what actually happened, get a real understanding, a feel for what it was like to be there. She'd been so impressed reading all those muggle papers Faulks had shown her, all those people risking their lives for their stories. It really threw the Daily Prophet into the shade, made her aware of what a small pond she really swam in. Why write articles about the Malfoy Summer Solstice ball when she could be like...like...Kate Adie...yes...

...and so here she stood, near the DMLE's departmental apparition point, hoping- _praying_ that her tip was as hot as it claimed, trying not to attract the attention of the Aurors as they came and went on assignment.

If only she could hide as a beetle- but she highly doubted she'd be able to explain away her sudden appearance, and there was no way she was going to lose the advantage her animagus form gave her, not a chance...

At the sound of familiar footsteps, she peered out of her hiding place in the shadows. Ah, finally...Faulks was striding along with a group of his entourage. She recognised the familiar sandy hair of Wulfric, the two women...what were their names...Juno and Athena, and that short and scrawny, wiry man, she wasn't sure of his name, carrying a...actually she wasn't sure what it was...a funny back pack with tubes and things, all terribly muggle, as were the ladies' weapons, and they were openly carrying them in the Ministry of Magic. The small team of Aurors with them were eyeing the unfamiliar paraphernalia dubiously; well, that wouldn't last long. And wasn't that the Weasley boy, Percival, something like that, talking to Faulks? She frowned, adjusting her glasses; he looked so nervous, and she had to admit, rather panicky. "Nothing to worry about, I'm sure you'll pick it up with a little practise. Seriously, the photocopier _is_ quite harmless, just a little fiddly to operate...sometimes." He gave Percival a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Weasley nodded shakily and retreated.

Faulks spotted her, his face going scarily blank, eyes like chips of ice. "Excuse me a moment," she heard him tell the lead Auror. She steeled herself as he strode over, trying to look as calm and professional as possible.

"Ms Skeeter," he greeted her, "what can I assist you with today?"

Rita shook his hand as firmly as she could manage. "I want to come with you...on your assignment, so I can write a first-hand account for the Prophet...put the work of the DMLE in a positive light, give the public a better understanding of their work..." she smiled tightly, "I understand it's something muggle journalists regularly do..." She trailed off, willing him to understand just how important this was to her.

Faulk's expression barely changed as he considered her request, his gaze taking in her equipment and her attire. She'd gone to some pains to make sure she would be ready for anything, even going so far as buying waterproof travelling robes and boots that weren't enchanted, in a drab grey. Apparently some magical creatures were sensitive to such things, and would hunt and attack the wearer of overly magical garments, making their capture or just observation rather interesting; she had a suspicion that Dark Wizards might have similar skills; better safe than sorry.

"It will be dangerous and unpredictable," he said after a moment, ignoring the impatient Auror stood behind him, "I can't guarantee that I can keep you safe. You'll have to be prepared to defend yourself at a moment's notice."

Rita nodded grimly.

"Can we go now?" the lead Auror asked sarcastically.

"In your own time, Auror Hewitt," Faulks replied coldly.

Auror Hewitt glared.

oOo

Carrow shifted uncomfortably on the small plastic chair scowling down at the exam paper. When he'd gleefully decided to stamp all over the Mechanicum's monopoly on technology, and, he was increasingly coming to realise, the underlying science, he didn't realise it was going to result in something like this, being forced to sit still on a tiny flimsy chair, at a tiny flimsy desk, in a room with lots of anxious little meat-bags for _three...whole...hours_.

He fiddled with his pen and the holder he'd made from split bamboo and elastic bands. It worked surprisingly well, and had certainly reduced the frustration of fiddly too-short writing implements. An invigilator frowned at him as he twanged a band; he hunched down under the glare, grumbling to himself. He turned his attention back to the exam paper... the differences between igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rocks_..._three different points for each type...hmmm...

The Mechanicum; they had turned the tools that built a civilization into a religion, a cult...and then it had fossilised, atrophied into this wizened thing viciously guarded by those stupid, blind..._cultists_, hoarding all that knowledge and artefacts to themselves, even though they didn't really understand them. Too jealous to let anyone else have a go; he growled softly to himself.

The invigilator cleared her throat meaningfully.

oOo

The port-key deposited them a mile from their target near a copse of trees, their target, a dilapidated stable building, clearly visible in the distance; a quick briefing, and the team had apparated into position, leaving _her _behind. The lead Auror had been particularly patronising about it, leaving Rita grinding her teeth in fury; if defenceless muggles could go into dangerous situations, then so could she...and Faulks had just watched with that cold mask of his, and then winked just as he apparated away.

Well, stuff staying here...her view of the world shrank and fragmented, grass stalks and dandelions looming large around her in all their faceted glory. Scrambling up a stem of grass, she shook her wings out, taking flight, whirring in and out of the grass and scrubby bits of hedge and landing neatly on the rough wall of the stable building, just above Faulks.

They were crouched silently on either side of a rotten looking door, sun bleached and peeling paint, wands and weapons held ready. What were they waiting for? She circled on the wall impatiently...the door burst in and they scrambled through in an organised stampede fanning out into the gloomy space beyond. Rita followed them inside, via the underside of the top of the door frame. There was a strange quality to the musty chilliness that the building breathed out that couldn't entirely be explained away by its derelict state. Into a cacophony of noise and movement which left her disoriented, she flittered up towards the rafters as quickly as she could, trying to find somewhere safe to observe the heaving fight underneath.

Crawling across a dusty rafter, she could finally discern some pattern to the mess beneath. Faulks locked in a close and desperate struggle with a muscular man with tattoos up his arms, Auror Hewitt duelling two at a time, Wulfric punching someone full on in the face, a freckle-faced youth lying too still on the ground, a nasty gash to his temple, the sound of a rifle-butt connecting hard with someone's skull as Chuddy worked his way through the desperate throng, the crack of a pistol, a female bellow and the sound of flesh hitting flesh hard as Juno flattened a wannabe thug's nose. Beyond the seething madness, stood a pinch faced young man watching calculatingly. Beside him...she shifted to get a better view...a ritual circle of some kind, the runes incomprehensible to her, she'd never got on with them at Hogwarts, and at its centre a young woman terrified and naked as the day she was born, and beyond, cowering, forgotten in a corner two more girls who'd pulled some rotten sacking over themselves to hide their embarrassment, watching with wild eyes full of animal terror. The smell of blood, and sweat and desperation permeated the small space, overlaid with the metallic tingle of spent magic, and something darker; if she had been human at that moment she would have sneezed.

There was a shadow of movement in her periphery vision, masses of long legs and multiple eyes, her instincts hurriedly flinging her into space, beating her wings frantically as she tried to get as far away from the threat as she could. A spider; oh, how she hated the hideous things, and that one had nearly got her too! She shuddered in disgust. It wasn't something the literature really mentioned, the dangers of predators mistaking you for a tasty snack. At least her fear and loathing of spiders was a socially acceptable phobia. What if she was stuck turning into a...an aphid, the thought of having to try and explain an overwhelming fear of ladybird larva was just...awkward...

A wave of magical pressure zipped past her, tossing her around in its wake, quickly followed by another that she barely managed to scramble out of the way of. She desperately needed somewhere safe to settle; instinct drove her on, and she dived towards the nearest shadowy nook she could find. Her refuge moved under her as it dodged and rolled like a ship in a heavy sea. She crept deeper into her new sanctuary, hair brushing against her carapace...a textured leather collar and black worsted wool...oh...oh, Merlin...she was clinging to Faulk's collar. A familiar voice, felt more than heard, distorted by closeness, swore expressively as the lurching became worse. Rita clung as best she could; oh dear, _how_ was she going to explain this? She'd wanted to get close to the action, but this was bordering on the ridiculous. She fluttered nervously, as Faulks lurched under her and engaged the next opponent, a man who swore and threatened and shrieked as much as he fought, desperately trying to keep Faulks's visibly superior skills at bay, dodging and twisting until, with an over powered bludgeoning curse, he blasted a large hole in the side of the stable building. Ducking and turning, he tried to position himself closer to escape, but Faulks was close after him, wary to his game. Desperately throwing himself to one side, the scrawny man kept on going, shrinking and twisting until...Rita clicked her mandibles in surprise...an animagus, a _fox _animagus. The rusty coloured creature dived for the rough new opening, easily leaping over the pile of rubble, disappearing into the yard in a rush, his thick bottle-brush of a tail trailing after him.

Faulks snarled with rage. "Wulfric," he bellowed.

"I'm on it," the werewolf shouted back, as he leapt through the ragged hole out into the yard beyond in hot pursuit. Faulks turned looking for the next combatant, but the fight was all but over, groaning soon-to-be-prisoners lying on the floor, suffering a variety of spell damage, some unconscious, someone shouting into the ringing silence as he struggled against a couple of the Aurors who were wrestling him to the ground and into cuffs.

She felt Faulks tense beneath her. "Stop! Don't _move_," he snarled at Auror Hewitt.

The man froze in the act of reaching out to the young woman sitting in the middle of the ritual circle. "but..." he tried protesting.

"Silence," Faulks snapped, "nobody move."

The Aurors stared in suspicion, though Rita noticed that Faulks's people didn't look the least surprised. How often did they do things like this? The thick oppressive silence closed over them all like a blanket.

One of the girls stifled a sob, as she shifted slightly under her makeshift covering.

An Auror twitched nervously at some unseen movement.

The little wiry man with the strange backpack thing shifted slightly, his boot scuffing softly on the floor.

Faulks ignored it all, turning slowly on the spot, eyes closed, hand on his pistol. What was he searching for? Rita watched in nervous puzzlement as the stable turned by. Was there something they were all missing? And then he moved, drawing the pistol so rapidly, that if she could have blinked she would have missed it, and pointed it at...the shivering young woman still sitting in the middle of the ritual circle, a clicking sound echoing around the enclosed space.

"What are you doing?" Auror Hewitt exclaimed. "She needs _help!_"

"Saving all our lives," Faulks growled, "there's something in here with us."

Auror Hewitt sputtered indignantly. "_What? _Bloody ridiculous!" he glared at Faulks before turning to the girl. "What's your name, miss?"

The girl wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, shivering, her eyes darting around, rather like a trapped animal Rita thought suspiciously, possibly too like...

"V...V...Vicky...my name is Vicky," she stuttered frantically looking between the Auror and Faulks, "wha...what's going on?" she asked desperately.

"I'm not entirely sure," Auror Hewitt said with a frown, "anyway," he gave her a smile, "take my hand and we'll have you out of here in a jiffy," he reached towards her with a kind smile. Rita watched with dread as the girl reached towards him...there was just something _off_ about her smile...her eyes...she fluttered in agitation against Faulks's collar...don't do it, don't touch her, she tried to scream but the clicks of her mandibles were barely audible...

...a staccato of bangs...one...two...small plumes of blood flowered on the girl's chest...she turned, her eyes glowing inhumanly yellow, her mouth opening far too wide in a jagged toothed smile, a mass of twisted horns erupting from her head...Auror Hewitt recoiled in terror as her body cracked and twisted, skin rippling and distorting in unnatural ways, an outraged hissing shriek...another staccato of bangs...one eye disappearing in a spray of gore...a chunk torn from the remains of her..._its_ neck as it tried to swarm towards the source of its agony on too many legs only to be brought up short by the ritual circle which still held firm despite everything...one final shot straight between the eyes...the back of its head disappearing in a spray of pulp and blood...with a last furious hiss it slumped to the floor, the life fading from its remaining eye, thick black blood pooling around its twisted form.

"Chuddy, if you would," Faulks said his voice hard and cold in the ringing silence.

The smaller man eagerly charged forward, quickly readying his curious weapon. Rita eyed it dubiously, it was obviously muggle but it wasn't a gun, so what did it do? It reeked of chemicals and the flame at the nozzle of the gun thing was not reassuring. Chuddy pulled the trigger, swathing the twisted corpse with a wash of flames with a satisfied smirk. The hideous thing burnt with a smell of rubber and manure, hissing and popping as it did so.

"You _idiot_," Faulks snarled at the prone Auror.

"Wha...what the_ hell_ was that?" Auror Hewitt screeched from his sprawl on the floor, "what's going on?" He pointed a finger at the burning twisted thing, "how the _hell_ do I explain _that_?!"

Rita felt Faulks tense and sigh, obviously furious and exasperated. "That, Auror Hewitt, was a minor example of the sort of...beings Mr Carrow has been trained to hunt down and destroy. How you decide to write this incident up in your report...well, that is entirely up to you..."

Rita stared at the horrible burning thing, a cold feeling crawling in her guts; that was a _minor_ example of what the Monster was really designed to predate

oOo

Carrow curled his lip in disgust; he'd seen this diagram, a right-angle triangle, each side extended into a square, inscribed on an altar dedicated to the Ominissiah once. He hadn't understood its significance at the time, but now, he could quite cheerfully snap their spindly little necks and pull their mechadendrites out by the roots. Pythagoras's theorem, venerated as a mystical symbol...he highly doubted the cog-boys had actually understood its significance either. He sighed heavily, finished his answer and turned to the next question...ooh, quadratic equations, his _favourite..._

oOo

Rita shifted slightly to the left, trying to get a better view of the hole in the side of the stable building and the rubble that was strewn across the yard. She was quite new to this photography thing; sometimes her shots were quite good, but other times...hmm, maybe from the side, but then she'd have to compensate for the relatively bright sky...huh...if she ducked down a bit...yes, that should do it.

The sounds of voices and approaching footsteps increased and Rita looked up in curiosity. The Aurors must be ready to start removing the prisoners into custody then. She'd left them several minutes ago, wasn't entirely sure how long the entire incident had taken, but hopefully they'd assume she'd walked over from the port-key point. She positioned herself near the entrance, maybe some shots of the prisoners being led away, she doubted she'd be let inside now to get one of the ritual circle with its twisted charred corpse; she'd just have to take what she could get.

The actually conscious prisoners were carefully led out in twos; most were resigned to their fate, but of course, there's always one noisy one. Rita sighed as the thuggish man with the tattoos started swearing and struggling as he spotted her; oh well. She took a picture while the Aurors restrained him with more conjured ropes and carefully placed stinging hexes, until he looked like nothing more than a giant grub with a human head.

"What's _she _doing here?" Auror Hewitt snarled as the shouting man was apparated away to the DMLE and a nice quiet holding-cell. Faulks looked over Auror Hewitt's shoulder giving her a faint trace of a smile and to Rita's disbelief a wink. Did he know where she'd been? Oh, how embarrassing.

"I walked here," Rita said flatly to the Auror, doing her best to keep her expression blank.

"Scuse us," a voice came from behind them, and the two men shifted, letting an Auror by levitating one of the unconscious thugs, a man who's personality Rita was sure was much improved by his current condition.

"Walked," Auror Hewitt snapped, "you can't possibly have walked all that way in twenty minutes. It's nearly a mile!" He snorted in disbelief.

Faulks rolled his eyes, as the two living female victims were gently led out, now wrapped in hastily conjured robes. "Don't be ridiculous, Hewitt, any healthy adult can walk a mile in fifteen minutes."

Rita shook her head with a sigh; unbelievable, people who apparated everywhere. It's a wonder he'd managed to pass the new fitness tests. Raising her camera, she sighted on the two girls...maybe this one would do...

oOo

Shifting uncomfortably on the flimsy little chair, Carrow checked through his paper, trying to ignore its groans of protest. Had he managed to answer everything...nothing missed? He wondered how his apprentice was doing. Though Timothy was very able, it was still early days in his training and he didn't quite yet have the instincts that would keep him alive as a fully fledged Inquisitor. There was nothing Carrow could do about it though, so he would have to trust in the God-Emperor and Timothy's common sense...

"Time everyone. If you could finish your writing and put down your pens please," the Invigilator announced. There was a flurry of rustling as the papers were collected and people stretched in their chairs and shook out aching hands, relieved that finally it was all over...until next year.

"Your first year?" the Invigilator asked as she collected his paper.

"Indeed," Carrow murmured with a small smile.

"Well, good luck and see you next year," she smiled cheerfully, moving off down the row of desks.

OOOOOO

The Senior Hit-Wizard from the ICW scratched the back of his head, brow furrowed as he checked through the file dealing with the latest (that they knew of) disaster caused by that English monster Carrow, and this time he was having to interview Muggle military, the poor sods having become entangled in the giant lunatic's latest rampage. Having to deal with traumatised non-magicals was not his idea of fun...

"Sir," his adjunct asked, "isn't Mr Carrow's secretary called Faulks, you know, the skinny crazy guy with the weird taste in clothes."

The Senior Hit-Wizard looked over his adjunct's shoulder, _Corporal Matthew Faulks..._oh dear...

The young man who entered the interrogation suite did bare a passing resemblance to Carrow's secretary of questionable sanity though he was more stockily built, slightly shorter, obviously trim in his smartly tailored uniform, hiding his discomfort behind a mask of strict professionalism. As they went through the formal introductions the Senior Hit-Wizard's foreboding was further reinforced. The Corporal was wary of them, distrustful even, though he hid it well, but at no point did he express surprise at who or what they were. He had to know. "I take it you are familiar with the Magical World, then?" he asked.

Corporal Faulks stared at him a moment, "to an extent...my younger brother is a wizard."

The adjunct, not always blessed with tact, blurted out, "And you're not jealous?"

Corporal Faulks gave him a funny look. "Well, no. We all have our talents after all. I've always been rather better than him at team sports...and frankly magic seems to have made my brother's life more complicated than anything...and not necessarily in a good way."

The adjunct seemed disbelieving at the muggle's response, utterly oblivious to the Senior Hit-Wizard's glare, who gritted his teeth in frustration; given the circumstances they needed to tread carefully. "If we can get on with the interview please," he snapped at his underling. Pulling out a wad of photographs from the folder, he quickly leafed through them, selecting a particularly good close-up of the Monster's secretary in all his scarred, gore-splattered, leather clad glory, plonking it down in front of the Corporal. "Do you recognise this man?" he asked, tapping the picture with a finger.

Corporal Faulks stared at the image intently. "That's my little brother," he finally said, his voice tinged with sadness.

The adjunct's head snapped up, his mouth open in shock. "Wha...wait, _you're_ the Bone Butcher's brother?" he demanded wide-eyed. The Senior Hit-Wizard rolled his eyes, exasperated at the other's turn-about in attitude.

"_Bone Butcher_?" Corporal Faulks said slowly, "I've nev..."

"Did he really kill a nundu with his bare teeth at the age of six?" the adjunct leaned forward excitedly.

"Ermm...no," Corporal Faulks gave the other man a strange look, unconsciously shuffling his chair further away from him, "I think I would have noticed if he'd molested any giant, disease breathing, jaguar like cats then, particularly since we lived in a particularly boring part of Staffordshire at the time."

"Oh," the adjunct's face fell.

"He got bitten by the school gerbil once if that's any help," Corporal Faulks offered, "seriously, the reason my brother is like this," he held up the photo so they could see, " is all down to that dangerous lunatic Carrow." He gestured to the pile of photographs, "well, you've seen him...what he's capable of..."

"Yes, Carrow," the Senior Hit-Wizard sighed, "tell us about Carrow. Start with when you first met him...and don't leave anything out no matter how small or insignificant you think it might be..."

OOOOOO

Ron shifted uncomfortably; he'd managed to wrench his shoulder at the last Defence Club meeting. They'd been having a melee style fight, no holds barred, absolutely brilliant, but then he'd gone and landed awkwardly. He hadn't really felt anything at the time, but now...he winced and shifted again.

"Mr Weasley, if you would stand still, please," Professor McGonagall frowned at him, "we wish to make a good impression after all!" She glared at the remains of Hermione's hair, lips narrowed with displeasure.

He sighed heavily to himself, Hermione shooting him a sympathetic look; this was going to be a very long evening. The shoulder twinged again. Should he take it to Madam Pomfrey? He shuddered at the thought of the interrogation he would be subjected to and then the following lecture. Sure, he wouldn't be in any pain afterwards, but honestly, Madam Pomfrey was getting seriously scary when anyone from the DC turned up in the Infirmary.

"Alright?" Hermione murmured.

"Just my shoulder," he muttered back.

"I've got some extra-strong bruise balm in my trunk, might be worth a try," Hermione said quietly, "bet Neville would put it on for you later."

"Thanks," he gave her a small grin.

"Neville Longbottom!" came a furious shout. Ron and Hermione peered round. There stood a slightly guilty looking juvenile bear, a furious Professor McGonagall standing before him, hands on hips. "Your human form, _now, _young man."

Neville rapidly reverted.

"Thank you, Mr Longbottom," the irate Professor snapped.

Ron and Hermione did their best to hide their amusement, before their mood slipped back into boredom, as the school waited in its entirety on the steps of the main doors for the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to arrive.

"I've got everything prepared for that thing we discussed," Hermione said softly. Ron's head whipped round, he had to admit he'd forgotten about it...but...oh, of course...Halloween.

"Uhmm...Hermione, is it wise? I mean the school's going to be crawling with people," he said, looking at her dubiously.

"Which means everyone will be too preoccupied to notice us." She gave a small smirk. Ron winced; he was coming to realise that _that_ expression only meant trouble and strife to those Hermione had set her sights on.

"I suppose," he agreed, dubiously moving his shoulder carefully. "What are we going to do at the next meeting?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"How about target practise?" Hermione suggested, "we've got all those crossbows Su Li discovered now..."

"Look!" a Ravenclaw shouted, "over there, above the trees! What is it?"

Ron sighed, looking where the noisy idiot had pointed. He squinted at the rapidly approaching dot...was that a muggle plane?

"So...the house-elves managed to mend them all right?" he asked as he watched the dot resolve into a flying...he wasn't quite sure...

"Oh yes," Hermione agreed, "we should have enough to go round. At least we can work on our aim while we're waiting to get proper guns."

Ron nodded distractedly. "Is that what I think it is?"

Hermione stared with growing disbelief at the approaching object. "It's a giant flying carriage drawn by giant flying horses." She stared at the powder blue conveyance in mild revulsion. "Why did they have to paint it such a vile colour?"

Ron shrugged; it certainly wasn't his cup-of-tea, but he wasn't exactly an expert on these sorts of things, mainly living in camo these days, with not even a trace of Chuddley Cannons orange. He sighed wistfully to himself, as the enormous carriage settled on the lawn with a thump, the huge horses snorting and stamping their hooves, their breath misting in the frosty air.

"Might as well have a huge flashing target on it," Hermione muttered. Ron couldn't help but grin as the door opened and steps unfolded, gilded twiddly things, more decorative than anything else. A huge lady eased her way out and down the steps followed by a gaggle of boys and girls clad in silky blue robes, with shoulder capes that fluttered in the stiff breeze that whisked in off the lake.

They didn't look very warm.

"She's almost as large as Professor Carrow," Ron commented too loudly. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and Ron ducked his head, blushing.

"Huh, doubt any of them will be joining us for our morning run." Hermione glared at the Beauxbatons students in disgust as the Headmaster greeted Madam Maxime to Hogwarts, and invited her and her students inside to warm up. The students were pale and immaculately turned out, looking as if they'd never ever had to lift a single perfectly manicured finger in their lives.

"Might surprise us," Ron said dubiously, "but I wouldn't hold your breath. I mean, look at that blonde lad at the back, I bet he'd faint if he had to face down an acromantula with just a knife."

"At least he'd make a useful distraction," Hermione suggested, "you could get a decent kill-strike in while the Acromantula was eating him."

"True, true," Ron nodded rolling his shoulder, trying to stop it cramping in the chilly air, "now if only the Durmstrang lot would hurry up and arrive..."

But it was not to be; half an hour of standing in the cold later, a scowling and uncomfortable Ron watched unimpressed as the masts of the Durmstrang ship rose majestically from the surface of the Black Lake.

"About ruddy time," he growled softly, glaring at the tall and shifty looking man with a silly looking goatee who sauntered down the gangplank. A dozen students followed after him, all clad in sensible looking red robes with fur lined cloaks. They still looked weedy to Ron's eyes; one of them actually flinched when he'd glared at them.

At least they got to go in the warm now.

oOo

"To your _actual_ house tables, _please_." Professor Snape glared at them as the Defence Club tried to join Greg and Millie at the Slytherin table.

"Yes sir," Ron meekly said to his almost-uncle, giving his Slytherin comrades an apologetic shrug. He trailed sadly over to the Gryffindor table, Hermione, Neville and Colin Creevy following in his wake.

"Well...blast," Hermione said, "looks like we won't be able to bash out the obstacle course plans now..."

"What is this..."

"Could it be..."

Ron whipped round, wary and puzzled.

"A long lost Weasley..." George dramatically clasped his hands to his chest.

"The prodigal son returned to the fold..." Fred pantomimed joyous tears.

"And look how he's grown," George sighed.

"And filled out too," Fred added.

George nodded sagely. "Mum's going to be revolting about it...and then she'll try and feed him up."

"You pair of daft sods," Ron shook his head at his older brothers' antics, "honestly, you saw me this morning."

The Twins looked at one another, their mood suddenly switching to sombre. "Actually Ron, it's been over three weeks since you last sat at the Gryffindor table for an entire meal," Fred said, George nodding in agreement. "Every other table, but this one; in fact, I reckon you've spent more time with the Slytherins than here. And as for this morning, we saw you charge up to your dorm covered in mud and laden with a giant back-pack full of Merlin knows what. We didn't actually get to speak to you."

Ron stared at them, guilt tugging at his mind. "Erm..." He shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"It's okay," Fred said, raising a placating hand.

"Seriously, we understand you've got a serious hobby," George said.

"Even more than Quidditch," Fred commented.

"We've been doing those...extra projects," George leaned forward conspiratorially, "for Uncle Sev."

"So we understand, we do. Just don't forget..." Fred continued.

"We're your brothers," they chorused.

Ron laughed uneasily. "Don't worry, I won't."

"Everything all right, Hermione?" Neville suddenly asked.

"Yes," Hermione said from where she sat, twisted round to watch the rest of the tables, "just checking Su Li is alright, you know how she can get."

The Twins winced. "She's got serious issues," Fred said darkly.

George nodded. "She's not really safe in a school full of children," he said grimly.

They watched the unassuming looking Ravenclaw for a moment, but she seemed quite settled between her minders, despite the unsettling proximity of the Beauxbatons students.

"Oh, look who it is," a disgruntled voice snarked from Ron's left. He turned to find Seamus and Dean glaring at the DC contingent.

"Oh, err...hey, guys," Neville greeted them with a nervous smile.

Seamus scowled. "Decided to hang around with your actual House mates for once? Nice of you."

"Seriously, it's not like that, not at all," Ron raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Why don't you two come and join the Defence Club as well," Hermione leaned forward, a slightly manic gleam in her eyes, "we're always looking for new members."

"We're not that crazy," Seamus said flatly.

"We _like_ being alive," Dean added, "unlike some idiots."

Undeterred, Hermione turned to the Twins. "What about you two?" she asked.

"Ermm...just no..." Fred and George shifted away slightly down the bench, "we've got other things to do," one twin explained, "we're really not into this...stabby...shouty...shooty sort of thing at all."

"Exactly" his brother said, "more the subtly art of enchantment, sleight-of-hand, moving in the shadows, pranking..."

Ron shook his head sadly; if only they would try it, they would see just how wrong they were.

The food arrived at that moment, effectively stifling the conversation as the students, hungry after so long in the cold, tucked into dishes familiar and not so familiar. "What's that?" Ron asked of a particularly strange looking stew.

Hermione swallowed her mouthful of beef stew. "Bouillabaisse," she said. Ron looked at her blankly. "It's French," she elaborated, "had it on holiday before, it's really nice. Try some," she encouraged.

Ron looked at it dubiously. "I think I'll pass for the moment."

"...how did your summer go, Nev," drifted across the table, "we haven't really seen enough of you to ask," Dean said, managing to mask his sarcasm almost completely.

"Well umm...it was okay," Neville replied, just as the first rubber duck hit the edge of a soup tureen and skittered off down the table. A few more followed it as Ron hastily pulled out an old golf umbrella he kept shrunk in his pocket for just this eventuality. And then the trickle turned into a flood of football sized pale blue ducks with gleaming red eyes, greeted with shrieks and yelps of surprise from the foreign students.

"What sort of _barbarian_ place is this?" a particularly outraged Beauxbatons student shrieked as she leapt up from her place at the Ravenclaw table, shielding her head with one arm as she fumbled for her wand.

Ron and Hermione watched the blonde girl in mild amusement. "Drama queen," Hermione decided, turning back to her meal. Ron shook his head as Ravenclaw table, now a sea of floating books and experimental conjured umbrellas, was pelted by a particularly hard squall of rubber ducks. He narrowed his eyes at the Durmstrang students who currently sat among the Slytherin students, many desperately holding their cloaks over their heads or conjuring shields. Was that Victor Krum, star Seeker of the national Bulgarian Squad? He blinked in surprise. Maybe Greg and Millie could introduce him, see if he could get an autograph. Maybe something good would come of this stupid tournament after all.

"...best summer ever really," Neville was saying, "I ermm...I pranked Uncle Algie," he gave a sheepish grin, "got him right and proper too."

"What did you do?" Dean asked.

"Oh I, err...hid in his wardrobe while he was having a bath and then...then," he chuckled nervously, "I jumped out at him as Grizzly when he opened it. Screamed like anything he did, and ran out of the bedroom...so I err, chased him down the landing and down the stairs, and erm...well, Gran's luncheon club was just coming out of their meeting just as Uncle Algie want past, and he'd err...sort of lost his towel at some point, so Gran wasn't too impressed." He sniggered. "Uncle Algie had lectures about the importance of proper dress in public for _weeks_ afterwards. It was brilliant." He gave his friends a dreamy smile.

Ron stared at his friend in awe, rather impressed; talk about mayhem. "And what did your Gran think about...Grizzly?" he asked.

"Gran was really proud," Neville said after a moment's thought, "yes...I think she nearly burst into tears, kept telling me how proud my Dad would have been...Gran sorted the greenhouse out for me, fixed it and that, to congratulate me I suppose," he drifted off happily, "...yeah, it was an absolutely brilliant summer."

Ron chewed a roast parsnip thoughtfully; his summer had been rather uneventful in comparison, meeting up with some of the other DC'ers to go running and practice self-defence, preferably not near his Mum. Hermione had joined them regularly until she'd gone on her summer internship in August. Unfortunately, Dad hadn't been able to get tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, but he'd been able to listen to it on the wireless; it had sounded really exciting and the Daily Prophet had hailed the event as a _Triumph for Wizarding Britain!_ Even his homework hadn't been too bad...

He idly turned to watch the Head table. Headmaster Dumbledore was cheerfully watching the fall of rubber ducks from under a particularly vibrant rainbow striped umbrella, completely unfazed. McGonagall was looking thin-lipped and disapproving of the silliness that was going on around her, her dark tartan umbrella equally severe and proper. Uncle Sev- Ron hid a grin- the usual bats that edged Uncle Sev's umbrella were doing loop-the-loops today. It looked brilliant and was getting funny looks from the Durmstrang Headmaster.

"...what _is_ going on, Dumbledore?" The melodious tenor of Madam Maxine drifted over, as she cast a glittering blue shield above her head. "I do not remember any indication that your establishment was so...so..." Words apparently failed her.

The Headmaster gave her a cheery smile. "Oh, merely a student prank gone awry from last year, I'm afraid. We thought we'd dismantled it, but it appears that the Castle herself rather enjoyed it, and so now, as you see..." He gestured at the hall, sighing in amused frustration.

Madam Maxine stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "The Castle?" she asked.

"Hmm, indeed," Dumbledore smiled, "it's one of the problems of old Magical buildings...after a while they start to acquire a certain sentience."

He rose from his seat, twirling his colourful umbrella, flicking his wand in a shower of sparks and a thunderous bang. "If I may have your attention," he announced to the sea of startled students, "it is now time for the lighting of the Goblet of Fire." He smiled round the hall. "I'm sure you are all terribly excited."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right," he muttered softly to himself.

A couple of house-elves appeared with a pop and manoeuvred a small table into place. On top a battered wooden box was placed. Dumbledore and the other delegates of the Tri-Wizard tournament walked round the High Table to stand clustered around it. The Goblet of Fire itself was quickly revealed to be an unassuming object, small and rather plain. Ron glared suspiciously at it with narrowed eyes; if there was one thing Professor Carrow had taught them, it was to expect danger from the most unexpected of places...

"...and with that, may the Tri-Wizard Tournament begin!" Dumbledore announced waving an arm dramatically. A spark flickered to life within the cup, glowing red-gold before spluttering into a pillar of fire, finally settling down into an ethereal flicker.

The students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons cheered and applauded, some rising from their seats in their excitement. The Hogwarts students clapped politely.

"We want Quidditch," some wag shouted from the back.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure once you've witnessed the first task you will feel the sacrifice of the Quidditch cup well worth it." He raised a placating hand. "Now, after the feast, the cup will be moved into place in the Entrance Hall so those who wish to enter may do so. The tournament is open to all those seventeen and above _only_, as a safety precaution. We do wish to avoid the type of tragedies that have so marred past tournaments. In order to ensure this, I will be placing an age-line around th..."

"ALL PRAISE THE LIVING GOD-EMPEROR," a thunderous growling bellow, so deep to be barely understandable, drowned out the Headmaster, "PROTECTOR AND GUIDER OF HUMANITY!"

Ron turned in his seat, trying desperately not to laugh, as the bellowing continued. There in his favourite spot was Chaplain Cassius, delivering his usual passionate speech- in English! A little stilted to be sure, but his meaning was perfectly clear. Odd, he thought, could portraits actually learn?

oOo

Barty clumped as quietly as he could down the back corridor and out into the Entrance Hall; he had had to wait bloody ages for all the really sneaky brats to clear off from putting their names in the stupid cup. A couple of them even sprouted beards, apparently a side effect of the age-line; he'd laughed himself silly at their panicked expressions. Just the thought of it was causing him to grin. He looked around, suddenly wary; but a few careful charms revealed nothing living in the vicinity. Quickly, he fished a torn slip of parchment from his pocket bearing the legend _Allesandor Darius Carrow_, a decent pureblood name if ever he'd seen one, but apparently the man was a dangerous and up-coming Dark Lord, and a threat to his Master.

And it had been almost impossible at first to find the man's signature. For such an important Ministry official, the man was incredibly elusive, hardly ever mentioned in the Prophet, and not so much as a picture or a mention of anything personal, not even his age or where he was schooled. It was almost as if the man was being ignored, which was very strange, considering what most Ministry types were like.

And so, he'd gone through all sorts of ridiculous plans, each more outrageous than the last, before he finally had the clever idea of questioning the Old Bastard. Carrow worked at the Ministry, Moody worked as a consultant for the DMLE, and so had access to areas of the Ministry civilians didn't normally have, therefore...

Moody had proved to be surprisingly helpful, and had revealed some truly disturbing information. _Carrow_ had been _here_ at Hogwarts, had, in fact, taught Defence himself for four months or so, and had single-handedly almost managed to drive the entire student body insane. The bloody Defence Club was probably his idea, run exclusively by his most ardent disciples. At least now he knew who was responsible for the blasted duelling pit at the back of the classroom that the Defence Club was so obsessed with. So the man must have left something behind; it was inevitable, no matter how careful you were.

He searched and searched both his office and the classroom, turned them upside down, looking for something, anything really. A mummified string of garlic bulbs, what was _that_ about, a rather crumpled picture of Gilderoy Lockhart, which was obviously highly distraught at the creases that marred its surface, a dusty jar of pickled doxies. And then, hidden, literally jammed down the back of some drawers he had hit gold, a large tome that- it was almost as though someone had deliberately hid it- appeared to be class plans for every year, of such detail and complexity it was mind boggling; and the things the lunatic author wanted to _teach_. Barty blanched at some of the descriptions of sword drills and team exercises designed to clear the undead from civilian habitation. And on the front page, written in incredibly precise but rather ugly handwriting was exactly what he was after. Allesandor Darius Carrow had signed his handiwork. Was the man so foolishly over confident he felt he didn't need to ward his mark against people using it maliciously? Shaking his head sadly at the stupidity of others, he had carefully torn the signature out.

Holding the torn slip of parchment out, he now sidled up to the cup and tossed it in. The cup flared slightly, before subsiding. Barty relaxed with a sigh; part one of the plan complete. At least now he could bloody well go to bed. He eyed the Entrance Hall warily, trying to ignore the sense of being watched, the slight flickering of motion in a couple of paintings on the edge of his vision setting his nerves on edge. He never remembered Hogwarts being quite this...spooky when he was a youngster. And now he was starting to sound like an old man. He'd tried asking about it, but the other staff all directed him towards Snape. And Snape was avoiding him...

As he made hobbled back towards the corridor, there was a soft whoosh as of flames suddenly building, and then a soft pop, followed by a rustle...

He turned, puzzled and suspicious, wand drawn; too many damn brats hanging around doing stupid things. Had he triggered some sort of prank? But there on the floor was a crumpled ball of parchment. Hobbling over, Barty leant over painfully to retrieve it. It was the parchment he'd just put in.

Annoyed, he limped back to the cup and shoved the blasted thing back in, glaring at the stupid cup all the while. Had it been spelled to only accept school students? Did he need to hex the wretched thing to override its usual behaviour? Scowling he turned and hobbled away, the siren-song of sleep calling to him.

Something small hit him on the back of the head, hard, and fell to the floor with a rustle. Barty jumped out of his skin, wand raised, looking round the Entrance Hall frantically. Seeing nothing, he turned...to find the crumpled parchment lying mere feet away.

With a snarl, he scooped it up and stomped angrily back to the cup. Swearing under his breath, he cast the strongest Confundus charm on the blasted thing he could, before stuffing the parchment back in regardless of his fingers, but almost immediately the flames flared an angry red and the parchment was forcefully ejected. Barty rocked back, his vision greying at the edges, the stinging blow to his forehead sure to leave a bruise. Just what he needed...oh Merlin's beard! What was he going to do now? He daren't put it back in again.

Scooping up the parchment, he shoved it in a pocket, looking round frantically before hobbling off.

He almost fell down the ladder into the trunk, such was his haste, his Master scowling at his unseemly behaviour.

"My Lord...my Lord," he gasped trying to get his breath back, "the blasted cup...it wouldn't accept...I tried putting _his_ name in...three times...but it...spat it back out...even after a Confundus charm..." he trailed off nervously waiting for the terrible explosion of rage, but it never it came.

Voldemort sat in his high chair staring at him, emotionless, shoulders hunched, hands wringing reflexively. "What to do, what to do," he muttered softly, gazing around sightlessly, till his gaze rested on the vile box lurking malevolently by his chair.

"We have no choice, we are going to have to kidnap him!" Voldemort hissed viciously, his eyes desperate. "He's a Ministry bureaucrat, it shouldn't be too far beyond your...abilities." His usual sneer hid a well of desperation. "If not, then..." his gaze dropped to the evil box once more.

Barty swallowed nervously; he couldn't fail at this, he just couldn't, because if he did...he didn't know what was in that box, and he hoped and prayed that he never found out, but one thing was very clear to him. If the Dark Lord opened it, then the consequences would be terrible.

He had to protect his Master; he couldn't..._mustn't, _fail.

OOOOOO

It was a beautiful morning, sunny and unseasonably warm, not a cloud in the sky, which in his experience didn't bode very well, Snape thought, as he watched the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, while waiting for his morning edition of the Daily Prophet to arrive so he could indulge in his favourite hobby, speculating over what tricks Carrow had managed to pull this time...and maybe marvel at the increased quality of the paper. No longer did it resemble the very worst of the muggle gutter-press; on a good day it was now almost level pegging with the Guardian...and he didn't even mean it as an insult.

"Severus...the _insanity! _Do the faculty here have no control?" an angry voice broke through his musing. There, striding up the slowly filling hall, was Karkoroff, looking rather rattled.

"Good morning." Snape gave his one-time Death Eater comrade a small grin designed just to annoy.

Karkaroff glared. "What's good about it? Being woken at six in the morning, by a group of...of youths, shouting "one, two, one, two", and then all the _bellowing _and _screaming_ and _clashing_ of weapons..."

"Oh, that's just the Defence Club having their early morning run," Snape said a little distractedly. Finally, the post owls were arriving, though why were several heading his way? A sense of foreboding settled over him as he took in the parcel the beautiful snowy owl was carrying. Not another "little gift" from the great lump. They were far more trouble than they were worth; though the shrunken heads had been rather good. He'd hung them up in his office, giving the place some much needed ambience. On the other hand, the still beating remains of an inferi heart he could have well done without.

The letter was...oh, Aquila Industries' R&D department asking for his expertise in a metallurgy experiment of some kind; ooh, that sounded interesting...

"...and that little oriental girl. I swear she was frothing at the mouth and attacking everything indiscriminately...and _some_ idiot had even given her a _war hammer_ of all things, and that so-called teacher was just standing there, watching her with the most apathetic attitude...Severus, are you even listening to me?"

Snape looked around with a start. "Oh, yes, yes, of course. I wouldn't worry about Su Li, she's just a bezerker, very talented. As long as she's got her friends nearby, everything will be fine...and I'm sure Moody had everything in hand." Snape gave a suspicious glance along the table. He was sure the man sitting there, warily poking a poached egg, was an imposter and he really felt no inclination to help the man, like letting him know that now Su Li was immune to the effects of calming drafts, a rather good way of soothing her was to sing _Auld Land Signe_. According to her friends it worked like a charm, even better than _Morning Has Broken_, or _Kumbaya_.

He returned to his vexatious post. The Daily Prophet, on the other hand, looked wonderfully thick, another bumper issue. What had Carrow done this time? He unfolded the paper with a satisfying snap and then paused. The photograph gazed back at him, the two girls, shock-dazed eyes in pale faces, halos of mussed hair, cocooned in rather basic robes and blankets, a hand reached out to a shoulder as an Auror led them past the camera.

He looked at the picture credit- Rita Skeeter- so she was talented with a camera as well as a quill, who'd have thought it? He gave the article a cursory look-over, and then started reading it properly. He blinked in surprise; _Merlin_, Rita really could write, had she been looking at muggle papers?

"Anything interesting?" Karkoroff asked over his shoulder. Snape rolled his eyes, and handed over the front section; so he'd lost the sports section too...blast, he'd scrounge it back later. So what was left?

Strange sightings of an unidentified creature in the wilds of Gloucester...some sort of troll hybrid... Snape gave a disbelieving huff, looked more suitable for the Quibbler than a supposedly respectable family paper...he turned the page with a sharp crack...an appeal for donations for the Sunshine Rescue Home for Puffskeins. Blasted little creatures, wasn't as if they were any use in potions making, even though apparently they were handy to kill Death Eaters with...some idiot caught with his pants down in a public place, and then promptly hexed by an expert in experimental charms, the moron was still in St Mungo's while they tried to work out what she'd done to him...and then a smallish article caught his attention...

..._wands found on the bodies identified as those belonging to Amycus and Alecto Carrow (not related to our esteemed Senior Undersecretary)..._

_...muggle experts working in conjunction with the DMLE believe the deceased may have lain undiscovered for as long as eighteen months..._

_...neighbours described the brother and sister as quiet, tending to keep themselves to themselves, rarely being seen in public..._

"Oh Merlin," Karkaroff gasped next to him. Snape jerked round with a scowl to find the annoying man had been reading the paper over his shoulder.

"Do you mind," he snarled but Karkaroff took no notice.

"There aren't many of us left," the Durmstrang Headmaster murmured in a daze.

Maybe it was a little horrifying, but he was more inclined to see the Carrow twins' demise as rather poetic, two pure-blood Death Eaters lying dead and undiscovered in a rented muggle property for nearly two years. He was going to have to find some way of subtly congratulating Carrow on that one. "No, there aren't, are there?" he replied, maybe a little too cheerfully, considering the odd look Karkaroff gave him.

And now for the dreaded parcel. He cautiously put an ear against it; well, at least it wasn't making any noises, that was a positive beginning. Cautiously, he worked through his array of detection charms, before slowly and carefully opening it. The rather plain cardboard box lurked ominously among the brown paper daring him to open it.

"It can't be that awful, can it?" Karkaroff asked, his normally jovial personality trying to reassert itself. Snape gave him a flat glare. With the tip of his wand, he gently lifted the lid of the box, to reveal a carefully packed glass jar containing..._a unicorn foetus..._

Snape hurriedly stuffed the thing back in the box; where the _hell_...how the _hell_ had Carrow got his hands on such a thing. His mind tumbled frantically; he didn't think it was illegal to own such a thing, but that was most likely because nobody had managed to obtain one, and lived to tell the tale. So how had Carrow...what had he done...and did he really want to know?

He hurriedly resealed the box as Karkaroff started to pay too much attention. "Just some delicate potions ingredients an acquaintance sent me...without warning, as usual," he scowled darkly.

Karkaroff grimaced in disgust at the possible contents, quickly returning to the disembowelled paper. That had been close, Snape thought; best not to relax now or he'd really be in trouble. He hated to think what the Headmaster's reaction would be.

oOo

The sense of foreboding had only increased as the day progressed, and Snape was now stuck restlessly herding errant brats to their actual house tables and dodging over enthusiastic Halloween decorations. The blasted Defence Club had a lot to answer for. Yes, uniting the houses as effectively as they had managed was worthy and all that, and had certainly improved the morale of the school, but unfortunately the camo-clad menaces had become a law unto their own, roaming from house-table to house-table. And so, when it came to occasions like these...

"Creevy, to your house table _now_!" he snarled at the skinny Gryffindor. The boy froze, his eyes comically wide under his thick fringe (Snape struggled not to laugh) before scurrying back the way he had come, his large black boots slapping on the tiled floor, plonking himself down not far from some of the ring-leaders of the DC, Weasley, Granger and...a Grizzly bear. He glared furiously; the blasted creature turned very guiltily back into Longbottom. He gave the ridiculous boy a curt nod, gritting his teeth in annoyance. At least the foreign students were behaving themselves, though that could be more down to bewilderment and fear, he thought, as he swept past the pale-blue clad Beauxbatons contingent who huddled together at the Ravenclaw table staring warily around them.

Then of course there were Carrow's plans, which were fraught with disaster. If the Headmaster found out what they were about to attempt...he shivered; the sooner this evening was over, the better.

The amplified tapping of a fork against a goblet broke through the chattering of the collected students. A glance at the high table revealed the Headmaster gazing around with a cheerful smile, though it looked a little more jaded than normal, as he nodded politely at some joke that the official from the Sports department of the Ministry was telling him...Bagman, he thought his name was, a washed-up Quidditch player; next to him, sat Crouch. Snape remembered Crouch from the war, a cold and calculating man with all the soul and heart of a dead fish...

He shuddered to himself as he made his way to his seat next to Karkaroff. The other man was giving the large chair next to him rather dubious looks.

"Severus," he hissed quietly, "why is there a chair of..._skulls _at the table?"

Severus smirked at him, before taking a wonderfully soothing sip of coffee.

"A very good evening to you all," Dumbledore announced, "and a happy Halloween. I'm sure you're all very excited and increasingly impatient for the beginning of the feast and the Drawing of the Names...and we will begin, as soon as our last guest, Senior Under-Secretary Carrow has arrived..." his head cocked to one side for a moment, "...which I do believe will be very shortly."

The sound of the castle's front doors opening was followed by the soft rumble of new voices which grew steadily louder as they approached the Great Hall, the noise increasing and then dying as Filch pushed the large doors open, revealing the gloom of the Entrance Hall. Snape stared; how many people had Carrow brought with him? He blinked in surprise as some of Carrow's pet vampires walked in, clad in their tight leather bodysuits, various weapons, mainly knives, strapped to their limbs, gold skull masks covering their faces; behind them, were some of the new muggle military types Carrow had employed, fanned out near the doors casually cradling...rifles, he thought, their black uniforms bearing a passing resemblance to what Granger liked to wear, but smarter, less frayed. Camo cloaks and black berets with a yellow trim finished their attire. After them, Faulks and that annoying American werewolf sauntered up to the High Table; well, the werewolf sauntered, Faulks looked as rigid as a post, frozen and stiff as he came to stand behind him.

"Is Carrow experiencing a cultural misunderstanding?" Snape whispered discretely to the younger man. Faulks gave him a flat stare, before sighing.

"Something like that," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Snape turned back to the doors trying to hide his grin, sneakily taking a look down the High Table at the stunned teachers and Ministry officials, just as Carrow made his grand entrance. He actually had to put his hand over his mouth to suppress his mirth. A tear of laughter trickling down his cheek, he took in the Monster. The man had obviously seen this as a golden opportunity to dress up to the nines and never being one to back down, the results were...he looked like some author's bad fantasy idea of a Dark Lord, all embossed and gilded leather, golden braid, that overly mobile chain wrapped round his chest as usual, and an enormous cloak, black, gold trimmed, with a lining of werewolf pelt, the collar a particularly fine and shaggy example, which swirled grandly around him as he strode up the Great Hall, smirking like the apex predator he was, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, and followed by a little swarm of those ridiculous flying skull things, which swooped and dove among the floating pumpkins, trailing cables and feelers, chittering and burbling all the while.

Snape risked another look down the table. Karkaroff was frozen in his seat, eyes wide, face grey and sweaty as he watched this apparition swagger down the hall. "And people complained about the Dark Lord?!" he finally squeaked. Snape slapped a hand back over his mouth, desperately trying to save his reputation as the miserable bat of Hogwarts. Beyond Karkaroff, the Hogwarts staff sat in various states of shock, the Ministry personnel looking slightly more jaded. Even the Headmaster was rather wide-eyed, and beyond, Madam Maxine sat with a strange little smile on her lips. Had the Beauxbatons Headmistress developed some sort of _crush_ on Carrow? And beyond her was a scowling Hagrid looking sullenly and sulky...oh dear! And he had assumed that this whole competition thing was going to be so terribly dull...

The Headmaster briskly walked round the table. "Mr Carrow," Dumbledore clasped the other man's enormous hand, smiling warmly, "such a pleasure to see you as always."

"It is good to see you," Carrow rumbled, "outside the confines of government, Headmaster Dumbledore." He gazed around the hall, taking in the Ministry officials, the decorations, the foreign students peering out from under the tables where they had taken shelter, the cheering Defence Club members, some of whom had actually climbed onto the benches and were bouncing up and down. "Tis quite the celebration that you are having tonight. I am glad not to have missed it..."

"Indeed, indeed," Dumbledore patted his arm, "allow me to introduce you..."

oOo

Barty stared at the nightmare apparition that had appeared in the Great Hall, the small furry rodent part of his brain demanding he flee, or at least hide under the table like a sensible person. _This _was Allesandor Carrow? How was he supposed to kidnap _this_...this _monster_?


End file.
